The more nights he spent in that club, the more convinced he was that you were meant to be just his — his to look at, to touch, and to appreciate. And not all those other dirty assholes he would have gladly beaten, if only the consequences weren't being kicked out.

He knew that, in a way, it was your job to go from one man to another as if nothing had happened, obviously keeping your feelings out of it, but he also knew that there was more between the two of you than that. How you looked at him and returned his lingering gazes, or how you let him touch you a little more than others, told him so, so much. He only wishes you were willing to leave everything behind just to run into his arms where he would gladly welcome you. (Also because he would have become poor with all that money spent, yeah)

“And here we are again,” Chris murmured with slight satisfaction, leaning back into the comfortable seat in the room reserved for clients that requested moments with the much-wanted girl, aka you. His gaze was glued to your body, even forgetting about the almost empty glass in his hands. Your legs were to die for, your hips, your curves... God

“Did you miss me?” He subsequently asked, as if the previous night he was not in the same exact spot as that moment.