Chapter 3 Strokes of faith

The bar was sleek and low-lit, tucked into the third floor of a boutique hotel in downtown Vargo—a place where the cocktails were overpriced, the walls were velvet-panelled, and the lighting made everything look more expensive than it really was.

Outside, the city pulsed with neon and heat. Inside, the air smelled like liquor, citrus peels, expensive perfume, and too much ambition. Music hummed softly from hidden speakers, just loud enough to keep secrets in the shadows.

Bri downed another shot, her tie hanging loose from her collar like a noose she’d stopped pretending to tighten. Her shirt was wrinkled and open at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, as if she couldn’t decide if she still gave a shit about appearances. Her lipstick was gone. Her composure, mostly too.

Jared let out a long breath. “Formality or not, we all know what's coming. The second Chen Long gets his hands on those future shares, that douche is gonna start making changes. Subtle at first. Then he'll fade you out. And the rest of us? Anyone who sides with you? We’re next.”

Lucas poured himself a second whiskey and shrugged. “But if she's director, doesn’t she have real power? I mean, I'm on your side, Bri, always. But I kinda get your dad too. This way, you run the company how you want, and one day it still stays in the family. Kin, you know?”

Bri laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You think that’s the plan? Even if I had full control, I'd have given that little shit the company eventually. I’m not saying I’d bury it with me. But I wanted the choice to be mine. Maybe I’d pass it to one of the brats on my mom’s side. Who knows?”

She downed another shot, slammed the glass.

“But that’s the fucking thing, Lucas. I wanted it to belong to me first. My name on the building. My signature on every contract. I’m not a saint. I can’t bleed for someone else’s legacy. I can’t wake up at 5 a.m. for another man’s children.”

Jared nodded, pouring her a fresh glass of whisky. “Simple solution. Go have a kid. Make your legacy.”

At that, both Bri and Lucas snorted—whiskey spraying from their mouths, choking mid-laugh.

“You’re disgusting,” Bri wheezed, wiping her chin with a napkin.

Jared smirked. “I'm practical.”

He waved a hand at the nearest server. A young woman approached, tablet in hand, smiling with tight professionalism.

The table fell silent.

She bent over slightly to wipe the table clean, and the room narrowed around her. Her short skirt rode high, hem barely clinging to decency, golden-toned thighs flexing with each swipe of the cloth. Her legs looked freshly waxed, moisturized, toned. The angle offered a perfect view. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care that all three of them were blatantly watching her.

Lucas leaned toward Bri and muttered, “Forget building a legacy. Just bury yourself in her.”

Jared gave a low whistle, eyes not leaving the curve of her ass. “She moves like she knows what it does to people.”

Bri didn’t speak at first. She just watched—cool and clinical, like she was calculating whether to flirt, fuck, or forget.

The waitress straightened, unfazed, tablet at the ready. “Would you like to order anything else?”

Her voice was soft. Polished.

Bri smiled slowly, that crooked, tired smirk she gave when she was dangerous. “Oh, I think we just might.”

When the waitress finally walked away, Lucas nodded in her direction, swirling the ice in his glass.

“This place is a goldmine of desperate women,” he muttered.

Bri and Jared turned to look at him, twin expressions of confused amusement.

Lucas laughed. “I’m just saying—hire one of these strippers to be your surrogate. Fake a relationship, maybe even a marriage. Pay her with the millions in your bank. She loses some time and her oven, you get a legit heir. Boom.”

At his words, the table dissolved into drunken laughter. Jared wheezed into his glass. Bri nearly choked on her whiskey.

But even as she laughed, her gaze kept drifting—back to the petite blonde with golden-toned thighs and a skirt that barely held on. There was something familiar about her—the slope of her jaw, the way she moved. Despite the bleached hair and colored contacts, something tugged at the edge of memory.

The drinks kept coming, the banter flowed, but Jared didn’t miss it—that flicker in Bri’s eyes, the way her attention kept snagging on that one waitress like a glitch she couldn’t look away from.

With a smirk, he slid from the booth, approached the dancer, and murmured something to her. Bri watched money change hands.

The woman turned, walked over, and gently tugged on Bri’s loosened tie.

  “I’m Candy,” she murmured, voice like honey with a bite. “For an hour, I’m yours.”

Bri didn’t usually frequent places like this. But tonight, everything inside her felt like it might snap.

  Lust and rage mingled like whiskey and gasoline.

She followed.

The private room was small and sweet-smelling—almost cloying. Vanilla. Fake cherries. Something floral and a little too pink. One lone chair sat beneath a mirror-ball light that cast soft shimmers across dark velvet walls.

Candy guided her into the seat, then stepped back. The bass of a slow track pulsed gently through the walls.

She moved with confidence. Hips swaying, back arching as she circled Bri. Slowly, teasingly, she slid the tie from around Bri’s neck, looping it through her fingers like she was testing its strength. The haze of lust coiled in Bri’s gut, but underneath it simmered the ache of frustration she hadn’t managed to shake all day.

Candy leaned in, lips grazing Bri’s ear.

  “You look like you’ve had a long week.”

Bri smirked. “You have no idea.”

Then, without warning, she reached up, grabbed Candy by the wrist, and yanked her down into her lap.

Candy gasped, startled. Her hands smacked against Bri’s chest for balance, eyes flashing. But before she could find her footing, Bri’s hand was already sliding over her thigh, the other grazing the curve of her ass with possessive confidence.

Smack.

The sound cracked through the small room.

Candy’s palm had landed clean across Bri’s cheek.

Bri’s head turned slightly with the force—but her expression didn’t break. Her lips parted in surprise, eyes wide—then narrowed. Not in anger. In interest. In arousal.

Candy stared back, breathing hard, her voice low and firm.

“You don’t get to touch me like that,” she said. “Not unless I say you can. I don’t care how much money’s on the table.”

A beat.

Then Bri exhaled—and smiled.

Not mocking.

  Not cruel.

  Impressed.

“Noted,” she said, her voice rough with restrained heat. “I like you.”

Candy smirked, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Good. Then behave like a client. Maybe I’ll let you misbehave.”

She stood, smoothed her skirt, then eased herself back onto Bri’s lap—this time on her terms. She rolled her hips just slightly, letting the contact linger.

“Now,” she whispered, lips brushing Bri’s cheek, “where were we?”

Bri tilted her head. “Do you take requests?”

“Depends what kind.”

“Can I touch you?”

Candy paused. Then nodded.

  “Keep it above the waist.”

Bri leaned in closer.

  “And what if I wanted to spank you?”

Candy blinked—then laughed. It was genuine, not mocking.

“You’re not the first to ask. If you keep it light—and tip heavy—I won’t complain.”

Bri’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “I don’t do light. How about a thousand dollars for a little bit of pain?”

Candy raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re serious?”

“Dead.”

A long pause. Then a slow nod.

“You get five minutes. And I keep my panties on.”

Bri tilted her head, eyes glinting.

  “Ten minutes, and we’ve got a deal.”

Candy turned, presenting herself deliberately as she draped across Bri’s lap. Her golden thighs flexed under the low light, the lace of her underwear a flash of color against flushed skin. Bri’s palm rested on her hips first—steady, claiming, not rushed.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Bri murmured, her voice pitched low—measured, velvet over steel.

Candy nodded, eyes closed, breath already uneven.

The first slap came like punctuation. Sharp. Crisp. A jolt that snapped through her skin and left it tingling. Her hips shifted instinctively—more reaction than resistance. The second strike followed, heavier. It landed high on the curve of her ass, and this time Candy twitched, her hands gripping the fabric of Bri’s slacks like anchor ropes. She didn’t protest. She only inhaled—sharp and shaky.

Bri’s hand hovered over the reddening skin, fingers splayed. She watched the pink bloom into something deeper—mauve and molten. Heat radiated from Candy’s body, and the faintest tremor ran through her thighs. A tiny, involuntary shudder.

And then that sound—a whimper, soft and breathless—poured from her lips.

Bri leaned in, her breath teasing the back of Candy’s neck.

“Good girl,” she whispered, her voice laced with hunger.

She struck again—harder this time, forcing a strangled yelp from the woman sprawled across her lap as her body shook.

Then again and again. A steady cadence, building heat beneath the skin. Each time, Candy’s whimpers and moans teetered on the edge of pleasure and pain, until tears streaked her pretty face. The sight ignited a fire in Bri’s chest, a heat she didn’t want to quench.

Her palm soothed after each strike. Slow circles. Caressing the warmth she created. Never breaching, just hovering—right on the edge of too much.

Candy moaned—quiet, confused, aroused. Her body pressed backward, offering more than she meant to. Her hands trembled. Her thighs clenched.

“You’re a mess,” Bri murmured. Not mocking. Not tender. Just observant. Intimate.

“You were made for this. To bend. To obey. To burn.”

Candy shook her head, barely able to speak. “N-no… I'm a good girl.”

The words came out slurred and low as she clung to Bri harder, breaths haggard.

Bri's throat tightened. Her control, once effortless, now clung to her like sweat. Every sound from Candy stoked a fire beneath her ribs. Her own arousal pulsed low, insistent, dangerous. But she didn’t show it—couldn’t. Power wasn’t just in what she did. It was in what she didn’t.

She dragged her fingers up the backs of Candy’s thighs, pausing where soft lace met heated skin. Her touch was reverent, almost gentle. As if she were memorizing her.

“Just like that,” she whispered. “You take it so well.”

Another slap—just enough to make Candy gasp, to make her arch. Her legs wobbled beneath her, giving in and fully leaning on the other woman. The flush across her back deepened, a glowing trail of red Bri could have traced with her tongue.

But she didn’t.

She kept her breathing steady, eyes sharp. Every inch of her burned to lose control—but she held back with white-knuckled discipline.

She let out a soft growl when her fingers brushed the wet patch barely covering the stripper’s mound.

At the touch—right where a slow ache had been building—Candy moaned involuntarily, growing wetter. Still, she forced the words out.

“N-no touching,” she panted, eyes fluttering open just enough to find Bri’s.

Bri smiled—dark, restrained.

“I won’t,” she promised.

Her fingers drifted up Candy’s spine instead—slow, deliberate—leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The tension between them thickened, coiling in the space between breath and silence.

Bri’s eyes fell to the garish pink thong stretched across Candy’s hips, and a memory flickered.

A similar pair, years ago. Accusation. Humiliation. Rage.

She let out a low, dark chuckle.

Maybe owning this pair—being given it—would make something right in a twisted way.

She leaned down. “I won’t touch you, but I want to keep them. How much for the panties?”

Candy looked over her shoulder, flushed, breathless, confused. The look in her client’s eyes had her agreeing before her brain caught up.

“Two hundred.”

Bri pulled the bills from her jacket and placed them neatly in the tip box on the side table.

Then her hands returned to the thong. Gently, reverently, she slid it down.

Candy shuddered.

Her body was already humming from the spanking, and now the cool air on her exposed skin made her breath hitch.

Bri’s hands didn’t grope—they possessed—drawing lazy circles on her thighs, spreading heat and anticipation. So very close to where she needed those hands, and yet—still—denied.

A soft, frustrated sound escaped Candy’s lips.

It wasn’t from touch.

It was from tension. From being seen. From being handled.

It was too much. She couldn’t think straight.

She needed her to touch her. The words almost spilled out—

—but then her body made the choice for her.

She pressed into Bri’s lap, biting back the sounds she couldn’t stifle. Her body moved on its own—searching for pressure, friction, release.

“Ah—please—I need you,” fell from her lips like surrender, and as if to answer her prayers—

Bri’s palm slid lower. Pressed against her heat, firm and hard.

Candy cried out softly, pushing into the hand, clinging to the waves of pleasure, clutching the fabric of Bri’s jacket as she tipped over the edge with a moan she couldn't bite back.

When it was over, she sat up on unsteady legs, eyes wide, cheeks pink. She nearly lost her balance, but Bri caught her—hands strong around her waist.

Candy looked up, startled. And there she was: tall, steady, dangerous. Dressed in an expensive suit and heels that only deepened the gap between them.

The way those hands steadied her—firm, but kind—made her heart flutter and her stomach twist.

“This was fun,” Bri whispered.

Candy didn’t answer. She just nodded, leaning for a quiet moment against the woman who both scared and intrigued her. For a while, she let herself stay there.

But the clock kept ticking, and reality waited just outside the velvet curtain.

By the time she stepped back into her name—into Zara—the heat on her skin hadn’t faded.

she swore under her breath as she wiped the slick from between her thighs, cheeks still flushed, breath still uneven. The mirror above the sink showed a girl trying very hard not to look like she'd just unraveled in a client’s lap.

She avoided her reflection.

The lace thong—the one she’d worn for that private—was gone. Given away. Folded neatly and offered like a goddamn token. She could still feel the heavy heat of the client’s palm against her lower back, the way her voice—low and amused—had whispered, “I want to keep it.”

With no other choice, Zara fished out her backup pair from her bag. Plain white cotton panties. The kind you'd wear to bed, not under a glitter-slicked skirt in a neon-lit strip club. They felt wrong against her skin. Like a secret she didn’t want anyone to know.

But the alternative? Going without. And in a place like this—even waitressing, not dancing—going without was always a risk. Not because of the rules, but because of the clients. The hands that wandered. The regulars who tipped like gods and acted like they owned your skin.

She stepped out of the staff bathroom, adjusting her skirt, trying to smooth the tension off her face.

But curiosity was already waiting for her.

“Uh-oh. She emerges,” Lotus cooed from the corner, twirling dramatically on one of the poles before sliding down to her feet. “Well? Spill. We always make a pool—how long a new girl lasts before doing the deed in the private room. I said four months. Which means I win.”

Zara scoffed. “I didn’t do the deed.”

“Girl, you were singing like a sailor in there.” Lotus raised a brow, grinning like she already knew the truth.

Zara flushed and looked away, muttering, “I got spanked. She was one of the... freaky ones.”

Lia—leaning against the lockers and sipping from a flask she wasn’t supposed to have—let out a cackle. “Spanked? Damn. That’s not even foreplay where I come from.”

Zara sighed, rubbing her temple. “Don’t remind me. I almost lost my damn mind. If she’d asked for more…” Her voice trailed off, equal parts shame and frustration. “I wanted to say no. But I was already halfway there before I realized it.”

Lotus shook her head, smirking. “If she comes back, are you gonna go again?”

Zara hesitated. Too long.

Then: “No. The wise thing would be to keep my distance. There’s... something about her.”

Lia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, like maybe the fact that she was fine as hell? That suit? Those hands? That energy? Zara, are you hearing yourself? That’s the kind of client we dream about. Classy kink with thick bills.”

Zara laughed softly, but her arms folded. Her tone darkened.

“Yeah, she’s hot. But she screams Fifty Shades of Repressed Rich Girl. The type who plays hard and bails harder. She probably finds me sexy—until the lights come up. Then it’s back to the lawyer girlfriend or the boyfriend with the vintage watch collection. I’ve seen this movie before. It ends with me being someone else’s secret.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Lotus let out a bark of laughter. “Okay, okay. Real talk. That was poetry and trauma in one breath.”

“You rehearsing that monologue in the mirror, babe?” Lia teased.

Zara cracked a smile and rolled her eyes. “Shut up.” But her voice had softened.

The others chuckled, and slowly, the buzz of conversation faded back into the low thrum of music and chatter on the floor. A few dancers slipped out to return to their rotations. The guys at the bar started calling for shots.

Zara lingered at the lockers for a moment longer, arms still folded.

The white cotton still felt too clean. Too real. Too exposed.

She didn’t want to want her again. But her body already remembered the voice, the pressure, the smirk.

And that scared her more than anything.