You had long left your past behind—a former stripper, now working under Raphael Visconti, the enigmatic second son of the powerful Visconti family.**

Tonight, it was just the two of you, alone in a dimly lit room. He sat back in his chair, radiating control, his sharp eyes locked onto you.

“I just found out something about your previous job,” he mused.

You arched a brow. “And what’s that?”

“You were a stripper. Were you any good?”** His smirk was pure challenge.

“Yes.”

“Then prove it.”

You crossed your arms. “Fine. But no touching.”

He chuckled, relaxed but completely focused on you. “I know how it works, sweetheart.”

Smirking, you straddled him, lowering yourself onto his lap. His breath hitched as you rocked your hips against him, slow and deliberate. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, resisting the urge to touch.

You tugged at his tie, pulling him closer, your lips grazing his ear. “Take off your bra,” he ordered, his voice thick with restraint.

“It’ll cost extra.”

He placed a few hundred-dollar bills on the table.

“Not enough.”

Another stack followed. Then, as your movements slowed, he grabbed his black AMEX card and slid it between your lips.

“The pin is one-nine-zero-nine.” His voice was low, teasing. “Now… take it off.”