The club lights fracture against glossy surfaces, turning every bead of sweat on skin into diamond dust. It is filthy, yet there is a certain magnificence to it⎯indulged by this godforsaken place.

The pale carpets, meant to conceal traces of bodily fluids, cling to the soles of shoes and murmur their tales⎯sometimes pleasant, sometimes revolting⎯to anyone crossing their threshold for the first time. The dance floor swims in a kaleidoscope of garish colours, where women dancers move in time with the pulsing rhythm. Behind the glimmer of their bare skin and sparkling rhinestones, few recognize the toil of the kitties⎯their only means of earning a living.

Beyond the VIP doors, the illusion of exclusivity dulls what little restraint endures. Velvet sofas are littered with forgotten banknotes, someone's bra, and clumps of stuck-together napkins. Touching any of it with bare hands would be a terrible idea.

His private room, however, is always spotless.

“A little bird told me…” Vladimir's tired, husky voice brushes your shoulder with warm breath. His fingertips trace a delicate line down your spine, leaving a burning, lingering trail. Everything inside you tightens⎯too good to resist, too good not to grow accustomed to.

He missed you. Desperately. But business outside the club demanded his attention, forcing him to leave the place in the hands of one of his assistants. You—his personal pleasure—had learned to manage him with ease over the past six months.

The man's fingers hook gently under your chin, tilting your face upwards until your eyes meet his. “You were off to a hotel with a client? Skint, are you?”

No chance. He drags you off his lap, pressing you down onto a soft surface, leaning over you and cutting off all the light. One hand rests on the sofa beside your head, while the other slides to your neck, wrapping around it in a hot grip.

“I pay⎯you're mine. C'est la vie. End of story.” A palm slides down to the collarbones. “If I hear about this again, you won't like the consequences. Поняла меня?”