Fucking my best friends brother #1

~Samantha's POV~

“Room 69, please,” I announce to the receptionist sitting behind the counter in the massive lobby.

“Just a moment, Miss,” she responded, right after raising her head to look at me, before picking up the telephone on the desk and making a quick call. When she was done, she flashed a smile and slid a key card in my direction.

“He’s expecting you,” she said for a final time. I offered a small smile back, picked up the key, and headed straight for the elevator. As soon as it dings open, I stepped inside, preparing to face the man upstairs.

Mason. My best friend… Macy's older brother, and my exclusive client for almost a year.

It wasn't always like this.

A year and a half ago, I was just Samantha Miller, the girl who’d finally gotten her ticket out. A letter of acceptance to State University, a full scholarship for my grades, and a future that felt bright and certain. I’d grown up knowing the value of a dollar....my parents were the kind of working class people who stretched every cent until it screamed...but for a while, I felt invincible. College life was new, demanding, and utterly exhilarating.

Then came the bottom dropping out.

My father’s hours were cut. Then, my mother had an unexpected surgery. The savings, which were already thin, vanished overnight. My scholarship covered tuition, but everything else...the dorm fees, the ridiculously overpriced textbooks, the simple necessity of eating...was a constant, gnawing pressure.

The little allowance my parents managed to scrape together for my living expenses was barely enough for a month, let alone an entire semester. I was skipping meals by October, watching my clothes get looser, and turning down every social invitation because ‘fun’ required money I didn't have.

The desperation was a cold fist clenching in my gut. I couldn't ask my parents for more; they were already drowning. I was too proud to ask Macy, Mason’s younger sister, for a loan, and Mason himself was a world away, a successful businessman who lived a life of expensive suits and private jets, always on a trip somewhere far-flung.

I needed a job, and I needed one that paid well, fast, and didn't have a schedule that would wreck my pre-med major. The solution, when it finally presented itself, felt like a scene out of a dark movie.

A nightclub two towns over. The Velvet Room. Far enough from campus, far enough from home. The advertisement was discreet: Dancers Wanted. Excellent Pay. I told myself it was temporary. Just until I had enough to cover the rest of the year. I convinced myself that the anonymity was my shield. The shame was a bitter pill, but the fear of dropping out and failing my family was a much stronger motivator.

I was shaking when I took the stage for the first time. The lights were blinding, the music was a brutalizing bass line, and I felt utterly exposed, a total fraud. I managed to get through the first two sets on pure adrenaline and a carefully constructed wall of detachment.

Then the manager caught my eye. "VIP, new girl. Room Three. Just a private dance. The client pays extra for the first time."

My stomach flipped, but I nodded. More money, less time on the floor. I tugged the sheer robe tighter around me and walked down the dim, carpeted hall, my cheap heels clicking with a rhythm that felt like a countdown.

I paused outside the door, took a shaky breath, and slipped the key card in.

The room was bathed in a low, amber glow. Soft jazz replaced the club’s roar. There was a leather sofa, a heavy oak table with an ice bucket, and one massive, shadowed figure seated in a wingback chair.

I stepped in, closing the door softly. I turned toward the client, preparing my stage smile, the one that was all teeth and no warmth.

The man shifted, his elbow lifting from the armrest, and the light from a nearby lamp caught the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. My entire world stuttered and ground to a halt.

Mason.

He was back. He was here. And he was my client.

For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, I couldn't move. My blood turned to ice, and the shame, that bitter pill, became a raging, fiery sickness.

I was caught. The perfect girl, the sweet, serious friend of his little sister, standing in a two-piece of black lace in a high-end strip club.

"Mason?" My voice was barely a choked whisper.

His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on me. They weren't angry; they were utterly unreadable, a cold, dissecting stare that saw right through my desperation and my costume.

I spun around, my hand flying to the doorknob. "I'm so sorry, I can't. I...I have to go."

"Stop right there, Samantha."

The command was a low rumble, but it cracked through my panic like a gunshot. I froze, my back still to him, my hand hovering over the cold brass.

There was a silence that stretched for an eternity.

"Turn around," he finally ordered.

I swallowed hard, my shoulders sagging in defeat, and slowly faced him again. I couldn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on the pristine knot of his tie. He was dressed like he’d just come from a multi-million dollar meeting, a shocking contrast to the tawdry setting.

"What," he asked, his voice now dangerously quiet, "the hell are you doing here, Samantha?"

My defenses crumbled. I couldn't lie. I couldn't form the elaborate fiction I’d used on myself. The words spilled out, raw and rushed, a confession of fear and financial collapse. I told him about my parents, the bills, the shrinking allowance, the threat of losing my dream. I finished my frantic explanation and just stood there, waiting for the pity, the disgust, or the inevitable phone call to Macy.

He listened without interruption, his expression never changing. When I was done, he leaned back, crossing one expensive leather shoe over the other.

"Get dressed," he said.

I blinked, confused. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Put your clothes on. You're leaving. Now."

I scrambled for my bag, adrenaline coursing through me again. I thought he was just helping me escape the club, but I knew he’d make me pay for the favor later, or worse, tell Macy.

Once I was covered and ready to bolt, he stopped me with a gesture.

"I have a proposition for you, Samantha," he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, chilling smile. "I can make this little problem of yours disappear. Completely. You can go back to being the star student, the good girl. You'll never have to set foot in a place like this again."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What's the catch?"

"I don't do charity," he countered, his eyes suddenly intense, drilling into mine. "You'll be mine. Exclusively. You will come to me when I call, no questions asked. I will be your only client. No one else. I pay for your silence, your time, and your complete, total obedience."

He named a figure. It was astronomical. Enough to cover my entire college career, pay for my parents’ bills, and buy my peace of mind for the next five years. My breath hitched in my throat.

"I take care of everything," he continued, his voice low, intimate, and utterly commanding. "Your tuition, your rent, your necessities. You keep me happy, and your life gets very, very comfortable. You'll never worry about money again."

It was a contract with the devil, I knew it. But I wasn't in a position to negotiate with anything less than a demon. He was offering to buy back my life, my future. And deep down, in the core of me, something dark and reckless answered the challenge in his gaze.

"Yes," I breathed out, the word a tiny, fragile sound of surrender.

His smile widened, sharp and predatory. "Good girl. Now, come here."

And that was it.

The moment I crossed the room, the moment I felt the possessive, searing heat of his hand on my hip, the old Samantha died. She was replaced by the one who was here now, on her way up to Room 69, a year later, a willing captive to the most complicated, dangerous man I’d ever met.

The elevator stops at the third floor and dings open. The sound is startlingly loud in the silence of my focused concentration. I step out, my spine rigid, and move straight through the hushed, deeply carpeted hallway until I arrive at a door, marked with the number 69 on it, the irony of the number never lost on me.

I suck in a breath to steel my mind, the adrenaline now a familiar hum beneath my skin. I press the key card against the sensor. Be Mason's. Be a blank slate. Do the job. The lock clicks, and I push the heavy door inward.

I step inside and shut the door with a soft, final thud behind me. The room is a massive suite, dim lit and bathed in a velvet, indigo lighting that makes the shadows long and soft.

My eyes scan through the luxurious space...the cityscape view, the unmade silk sheets on the king-sized bed...before landing on the single, massive male silhouette seated in a corner.

He's in a thick, leather wingback chair, his posture relaxed, yet radiating a coiled, absolute power. The only clothing I can make out is the deep sheen of dark, bespoke trousers and a crisp shirt, both undone at the collar.

There’s a beat of heavy, electric silence. My gaze finds his, and the usual year’s worth of unspoken history and complex transaction flashes between us.

Then, his voice slices through the air, low, rough, and utterly commanding.

“What are you waiting for, Samantha? Strip.”

I obey immediately. The command is the only sound needed. My fingers are already on the buttons of the long, luxurious trench coat I wore, a necessary covering to cross the lobby. I unbutton it quickly, my movements practiced and efficient, until it pools at my feet.

Now I'm standing in my battle uniform: wine-red matching lace lingerie, the exact color of his particular, wicked preference. The fabric is thin, transparent, and offers no protection. It just makes the contrast of my bare skin to the silk of the carpet sharper.

I lift my chin, standing in the middle of the room with just the lingerie and my towering stilettos, my body already beginning the familiar, needy thrumming.

The silence continues, the only sound my slightly uneven breathing.

“Did you not hear me?” he asks, his tone slightly dangerous. “When I said strip, I meant completely. Don’t make me repeat myself, Samantha.”

He never does. He only needs to say it once.

My hands go behind my back, the clasp of the bra a tiny, insignificant click. The straps slide down my arms, and the bra falls to the floor to join the coat. I don't look down. Then the matching thong follows suit, a whisper of lace against the air, until I am completely bare before him.

I stand there, naked and vulnerable, my nipples already painfully hard and pointed, a physical reaction that betrays my carefully constructed detachment.

“Closer,” he orders. Just one word.

I walk toward him, the leather chair growing larger and more intimidating with every slow step. I stop when I am right in front of him, just close enough to see the hard line of his lips, the intensity in his dark eyes, and the shadow that is cast by the single, shocking detail beneath the dim light.

He is already naked beneath the shirt, his legs spread wide on the armchair, and my eyes bulge down on his already fully erect, thick, and veiny length.

I swallow hard, my mouth instantly dry, already aroused by its shocking, undeniable site. The familiar, deep ache starts in my core.

“What are you waiting for, Samantha?” he asks, his voice now a low growl.

“Don’t just stand there like a statue. Drop to your knees and do the job I pay you for.”

I sink to the floor, my knees meeting the thick, plush carpet. The action is automatic, a surrender I perform without conscious thought. I am already in the rhythm of the deal.

He shifts in the chair, a move that pushes his erection closer to my face.

“Well? Go on,” he commands, leaning forward, the shirt now falling open to reveal the hard, sculpted lines of his chest. “And while you’re at it, keep your eyes up. You look at me so you remember who the fuck you belong to.”

I look up, meeting his dominating, dark gaze. The shame is gone; all that's left is the intensity of the moment and the thrilling, dangerous power dynamic.

“Yes, Daddy,” I respond, the word coming out husky and practiced, the required title of submission.