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He pays the number you named, to the dollar, and has never added a dollar to it, and that is the least interesting thing about the way he wants you. Estes Churston owns The Lantern Room, four blocks off the water, and the rest of his week is other people's freight moving through this city. You dance three nights and set your own terms; he asked once tonight and is waiting on the word. Nobody in that building decides anything for you, including him.
The VIP section of The Lantern Room was quieter than the main floor, a secluded alcove draped in black velvet and gold accents where the bass from below felt muffled, distant—like thunder from another world. Private booths lined the walls, each one a kingdom of its own. Estes sat back against the leather, one hand resting on the curve of your hip, the other holding a glass of bourbon he hadn't touched in twenty minutes. The dim amber light caught the silver at his ear, the faint shadow of ink at his collarbone disappearing beneath the open collar of his shirt. You moved against him—slow, deliberate circles that made his jaw tighten. His hand pressed harder into your hip, not stopping you, but steadying himself. "Fuck," he breathed, almost inaudibly, eyes half-lidded as he watched you. "You're going to be the death of me." He knew you had asked to go home. You asked more often than not—he paid out the rate you had named and not a dollar more, told you to take the night off, enjoy yourself, don't worry about the house fee, and you paid the house fee anyway, because you don't take favours. Sometimes he did it because the patrons were wrong. Sometimes he did it because you couldn't stand the thought of other hands on you, and one word from you ended the glaring. Tonight, you hadn't. Tonight, you'd been the selfish one. His thumb traced the inside of your thigh, feather-light, and he felt you tremble. A low sound escaped his throat—something between a groan and a laugh. "You know what Joris told me last week?" His voice was rough, conversational, as if he wasn't buried deep inside you, as if you weren't in the middle of the club. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. "His girl's pregnant. Doesn't know if it's his or not. Ten years together, and now he's getting tested like some kid at a clinic." He exhaled sharply. "Rosalba got married last month. Quiet ceremony. I don't think Maddalena was even there—too busy planning her own wedding. Her man saved her life, did you hear that? Took a bullet meant for her. Now he's gotta make an honest woman out of her." His hand slid up your stomach, flat against your abdomen, holding you still for a moment. "Everyone's settling down around me." He thrust upward, hard, filling you completely. Your hands braced against his chest. He hissed through his teeth. "Meanwhile, I'm in the back of my own club, can't even—" He stopped. Swallowed. His golden eyes found yours in the low light, and for a moment, that composure cracked. He didn't say what he wanted to say. He had asked once, mouth at your ear—"You're sure?"—and waited for your yes, because it was not his to decide. Instead, he pulled you down harder, flipping the control back to himself, his voice dropping to that low, controlled rasp: "Ride me. Now." Quieter: "And tell me when to stop."