CHAPTER 22: SHE WAS THE FRIEND

"You told me it was a friend that was helping you with the job," she shot back.

"Yes, she was the friend."

"How long have you known this friend?" she asked.

Steve’s shoulders slumped, his eyes sliding shut. He let out a long sigh, the sound of a man burying himself alive. "She is my ex-girlfriend."

Ivy barked a laugh. "Which is exactly what I’m about to be. But don’t hold your breath, because unlike her, I won’t be granting you any favors in the future for sexual gratification." She moved to step past him, but Steve shifted in front of her, blocking the path.

"Ivy, this is also your fault," he blurted, desperation bleeding through the words.

She froze, her eyes narrowing, heat rising in her chest. For a split second, the audacity almost made her laugh again. Then it hit her—fault? Her fault? The man who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants was blaming her?

Her fingers itched to slap him. Her lips trembled with the words lining up, a whole arsenal of cutting truths. Fault?

"Excuse me?"

"We have been dating for two years, and we have never had sex," he blurted. "You keep saying we need to wait for the right time. The right time never came."

"And thank God it never did! Do you even hear yourself? I wanted it to be special! Because I loved you, Steve. Loved you enough to wait until my heart wasn’t dragging a thousand weights behind it, until my head wasn’t full of unlimited bills and worries." She pressed a trembling hand against her chest.

Her throat burned, and her hands shook as fury wrestled with heartbreak. "I had too many things clouding my head, too many responsibilities on my shoulders. And you—" she jabbed her finger at him "—you think sex is the cure-all? What good would I be in bed when I am constantly distracted by my worries? And oh, I thank every angel, every star, every whisper of fate that I did not let you be my first. Because right now, I would be drowning in regret."

"Ivy, please...don’t do this. Please, let me make this up to you. I’ll do anything."

"Just leave me alone for now." She felt hollowed out. Her chest ached, her palms itched, but she held firm. "I might forgive you one day, Steve. Maybe. But every time I see you now, all I can think of is you bending another woman over and fucking her like you were born to do it." She saw his shoulders fold, shame carving lines into his face.

And with that, Ivy pushed past him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another glance. Her hands shook as she slid the key into the lock. She shoved the door open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut.

She rested her back on the door and shut her eyes only for the image of Winn’s lips on hers to assault her senses. "Fuck my life!" she groaned.

*****

Winn knew he shouldn’t be here. He was supposed to be home, resting up before House of Kane’s celebratory gala on Saturday evening. But instead, here he was, in a private booth on the mezzanine floor of New York’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club.

He was here for her. Ivy. Beyoncé. His secretary by day, his obsession by night.

Since Monday, when he had kissed her in the stairwell of the hotel, they had fallen neatly back into their professional masks. He barked orders, she answered politely. Meetings, schedules, contracts. Not a word about the way she had tasted. Not a word about the way his cock had pressed urgently against his trousers the second her lips parted for him. She acted as if it hadn’t happened, as if her body hadn’t leaned into his, as if she hadn’t kissed him back.

So here he sat, cloaked in shadows, waiting.

When the attendant arrived, balancing his bottle of Rose, Winn forced his voice into its usual controlled calm. "Is Beyoncé dancing tonight?" he asked, as if the answer didn’t matter.

The man glanced at his notepad, shook his head politely. "I have no idea, sir. She isn’t here."

Relief and disappointment slammed into him at once. Relief that the dozens of wolves downstairs would not be feasting on her curves. Disappointment that he had dragged himself here only to be denied the very sight he craved.

He leaned back in the plush leather. God help him. He should leave. He knew he should.

A comedian was on stage. Winn didn’t so much as twitch. He sat back, rolling the drink across his tongue. Then the lights dimmed and a live band took the stage, crooning smooth R&B numbers.

Then, finally, the curtains pulled back, the spotlight hit, and her name dropped from the MC’s lips: Beyoncé. She was the first dance of the night.

As expected, the club erupted. Dozens of lecherous men howled and whistled. He didn’t blame them—hell, he was one of them. The girl had a body that didn’t belong to her age, curves that belonged in sin’s museum, legs that promised wars would be fought for them. And now they were all staring, ogling, drooling.

He leaned forward, snatching up the magnifier. He trained it on her as she slid onto the stage in silver heels, the mask framing her face.

The opening beat of Hips Don’t Lie thundered through the speakers, and her hips answered the music. Whoever chose her songs deserved a raise. Her body became percussion—swaying, grinding, rolling, each roll of her hips sending the wolves at the stage into a frenzy. Bills flew.

Winn’s cock stiffened instantly, straining against the fabric of his pants. He cursed silently, dragging a hand down his face. It was torture now—because unlike these other bastards, he knew. He knew what her lips tasted like, knew the warmth of her breath when she gasped into his mouth, knew the softness of her body pressed against his. Watching her now was memory sharpened into a knife, stabbing deeper with every sway of her hips. And God help him, he wanted more.