Page 8 of Submitting to Daddy
“What?” Eavan shrugs with a sassy glint in her eyes. “The three of you could stand to be humbled once in a while.”
Shaking my head, I mutter under my breath, “Such a fucking brat.”
“Myfucking brat,” Enzo whispers against her neck, just loud enough that I overhear him.
The three of them toast to my striking out, razzing me as my attention drifts back to her. The curve of her smile, the glimmer in her eyes, and—fuck—the way the gentle sway of her hips drew my eyes with every step toward the door.
Madison Roark might have walked away from me tonight, but she was right—I’ll be seeing her again. I’ll make sure of it.
The powerful roar of my Aston Martin’s engine fades as we pull up to the building. When I park at the valet, neon lights flicker across the windshield, pulsing in pinks and reds. The marquee glows above us,King’s Temptation,in a gold script that’s impossible to miss. Confident, I step out into the warm night air and I straighten the cuffs on my black button-up. I stare up at the building we’ve poured months—and a disgusting amount of money—into. This club was ours before the city was, and it’s finally opening night.
Enzo is standing on the sidewalk beside me, fixing his tie like we’re heading into a gala instead of a strip club. “This is going to make us kings.” His voice is smooth and rich as a pleased smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We already are,” Nikolai scoffs, flicking a cigarette into the gutter as he joins us. “But this? This is a fucking throne.”
He’s not wrong.
King’s Temptation isn’t just a strip club—it’s a statement. Three stories of opulence dressed in sin. Black marble floors and gold-veined columns. Crystal chandeliers that hang like upside-down ice sculptures. Velvet booths that wrap around low-lit tables, designed to make the rich feel even richer. Every inch of it is curated to perfection—luxury that whispers power instead of shouting it, because the men we’re catering to know how to read a room. We built this place for the elite—the kind of men who want to be worshipped behind closed doors. And behind those doors, they can spend ten grand without batting an eye while we clean our dirty cash under the disguise of champagne receipts and lap-dance tallies.
I step through the front doors, greeted by a wall of perfume, desire, and money. It’s intoxicating, exactly how it’s supposed to be.
Girls in stilettos and designer lingerie prowl through the crowd like a pride of lionesses on a hunt, weaving between men in bespoke suits and the equally as powerful women some of them have on their arms. The lighting is low, red and gold shining from hidden strips, making everyone glow like they belong on a magazine cover. The bass throbs through the floors. Champagne bubbles sparkle in glasses. And everywhere I look, people are watching us, waiting for a sign from the Kings that it’s okay to indulge.
Enzo heads to our reserved VIP booth overlooking the main stage. Nikolai peels off to check the bar and security feeds, like the obsessed bastard he is—always watching for cracks before they form. I take my time crossing the club, pausing to minglewith a few familiar faces—city councilmen, a judge I’m definitely not supposed to be on a first-name basis with, and a few CEOs whose real names we’ll keep off the books.Everyone wants a piece of this place already.
I stop at the bar to grab a Tullamore Dew on the rocks and then join Enzo in our booth. It’s the best seat in the house; angled perfectly toward the stage, high enough to see everything, yet private enough to watch without being approached. On nights we aren’t here, the cost of bottle service for others to reserve this spot will practically cover our costs for a month.
The crowd is warm and generous. Drinks are flowing and money is flying at the talent. Dancer after dancer takes to the stage—each one beautiful, talented, and fluid—but none of them truly holding my attention. Not really. I spend more time talking with my brothers than I do checking out the girls on stage—until the DJ’s voice slinks from the speakers, his tone so devilish that I can practically see his Cheshire grin. “Gentlemen—and the lovely ladies joining us tonight—you’re about to meet your new obsession. Please welcome to the stage…Raven.”
The bass drops, and the lights shift as the opening notes ofWild Sidethrum throughout the club—dark, smooth, and dripping with temptation. A silhouette slinks toward the pole with a slow, deliberate stride, and I forget how to breathe. She knowsexactlywhat she’s doing. Framed in red light, my eyes rake over every sinful curve of her body, long legs and ample hips that curve into her trim waist. I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.
She’s dressed in black lace—barely. Thigh-highs. Panties held together with a thin chain that dangles along her hips when she twists. It’s not the outfit that gets me, though,it’s the way she moves. Controlled. Sensual. Powerful. She sways in perfect rhythm with the music, like she owns it—like she’s the onescoringit. She exudes the confidence of a woman who knows every man in the room would set himself on fire for a chance to touch her. And the way she’s drawn the attention of every man, she has earned that right.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, completely spellbound.Fuck…She hasn’t even turned around yet.
“Jesus Christ,” Enzo mutters beside me. My pulse is thudding in my ears so loudly I barely hear him. “I think half the men in here just forgot how to speak.”
I don’t respond.I can’t.
Raven climbs the pole like it is second nature to her, swinging upside down with a strength and grace that makes my chest tighten. When she spins, her dark mane fans out around her like smoke. She slides down slowly, arching her back and ass, and the room fucking reacts—collective gasps and a hundred dropped jaws.
Gliding around the pole, she turns, and the world shifts beneath me when I finally see her face.
Madison Roark.
Her eyes are closed, and her makeup is much heavier, but there’s no mistaking her. It’s the woman from the bar. The feisty little firecracker I tried to take home two nights ago. The one who told me I’d be seeing plenty of her.
God damn.
I practically swallow my tongue as she tosses her barely-there lace bra to the stage floor.She wasn’t kidding… This is alotmore of her.I sit back, stunned, heart hammering, and my cockgrowing hard enough to uncomfortably tent the front of my pants. She dances like she’s been doing it forever—flawless, magnetic, every inch of her body telling a story I can’t stop watching. Her golden skin gleams under the lights. She owns that fucking stage, and every person in the room knows it.
“Wipe your chin, Cian,” Nik teases, shoving a napkin at me with a smirk. “You’re making a mess.”
I ignore him, because now I’m watching with new eyes. She’s no longer just the woman with a challenging smile and a fire in her eyes who caught my interest a couple of nights ago.
The way the bastards in this club are staring at her—like they’re one more gyration from worshipping at her feet—makes something ugly rise in my throat. They can’t have her, because she’s going to bemine. I drain my bourbon in one go, trying futilely to swallow it.
Her hips roll one last time as she works the pole, slow and smooth, until the song ends. She grabs her bra and struts offstage with confidence, the crowd surging toward her. Wall Street guys waving wads of cash and shouting offers at her as more of the crowd rise to their feet—all of them reaching for her like she’s an auction lot.
