Sinfully His

(Ivy's POV)

‎Chapter 1

The slap of my shoes against wet pavement echoed louder than the thunder overhead. Rain soaked me to the bone, cold rivulets crawling down my spine. My breath caught as I reached the back entrance of the club, fumbling with the rusted handle. My fingers shook, partly from the chill, mostly from panic. I was late. Again.

‎The door creaked open and heat swallowed me whole. Liquor. Sweat. Expensive perfume. The scent of survival. Neon lights bled through the hallway as bass pounded from the club floor, steady and primal like a second heartbeat.

‎“Ivy.”

‎His voice cracked through the air.

‎I turned to see my manager stalking toward me, eyes bloodshot, jaw tight.

‎“Do you have a death wish,” he snapped, “or are you just stupid?”

‎“I’m sorry,” I stammered, dripping on the floor. “The bus stalled, and...“

‎“I don’t care. Get changed. Now. The boss is here. Private suite. High rollers. If you mess this up tonight, you’re gone.”

‎My stomach twisted.

‎Not because I was scared of losing the job. That fear had long passed. No. It was because he was here.

‎Damien Voss.

‎The ghost investor. The man behind the curtain. He bought the club, tripled its revenue, and disappeared into whispers. Ruthless. Untouchable. The kind of man you didn’t look in the eye unless you wanted to drown in it.‎

‎I rushed into the changing room and peeled off my wet clothes, grabbing my uniform from my locker. The black corset top clung to my skin. The skirt was shorter than I remembered, barely covering my ass. I pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail, swiped a bit of gloss across my lips, and forced myself to breathe.

‎Fake it, Ivy. Smile. Serve. Survive.

‎I barely stepped out when another girl shoved a tray into my hands.

‎“Private suite. Go. Now.”

‎The tray shook with every step I took. Whiskey glasses. Macallan bottle. Tiny crystal dishes with overpriced bites. I climbed the stairs slowly, heart pounding hard enough I could feel it in my throat.

‎The suite door was cracked open.

‎I nudged it with my hip and stepped inside.

‎And then I saw him.

‎The room was low-lit and smoky, warm with gold accents and shadows. Laughter circled a poker table where powerful men smoked cigars and shuffled chips like kings. But none of them mattered.

‎He was at the far end of the room.

‎Legs spread. One arm slung lazily over the couch. The other holding a glass of dark liquor.

‎Watching me.

‎Damien Voss.

‎His gaze caught mine the moment I walked in. Unblinking. Slow. Like he was already undressing me in his mind. I should’ve looked away. Should’ve focused on the tray. Should’ve run.

‎But I couldn’t.

‎“Who’s this?” one man grinned, eyes sliding over me like oil.

‎“A new girl?” another asked, chuckling. “She’s cute.”

‎“She’s mine,” Damien said.

‎The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.

‎The entire room froze.

‎I blinked. Had I imagined it? But when I looked back at him, he was still watching me. Still claiming me with nothing but his eyes.

‎He took a slow sip from his glass. Then, without breaking eye contact, he said,“Come here.”

‎My body obeyed before my brain could catch up.

‎I walked toward him, tray trembling in my hands, legs weak like I was floating through a dream. Or a trap.

‎He leaned forward, eyes dragging down my body, slow and deliberate like he was stripping me with every blink.

‎“What’s your name?” he asked.

‎“Ivy,” I whispered.

‎He nodded once. Then took the tray from my hands and set it beside him. His fingers brushed mine, just barely, but it lit a fire across my skin.

‎“You’re wet,” he said.

‎“I got caught in the rain.”

‎A pause. His gaze dropped to my chest. My nipples had hardened through the thin fabric. I wanted to cover myself, but my arms wouldn’t move.

‎“You’re working the floor tonight?” he asked.

‎I nodded, heart pounding.

‎“Not anymore,” he said. “You’ll stay here. With me.”

‎I swallowed hard. “I have other tables.”

‎“Not tonight.”

‎He didn’t wait for my answer. Just sat back, casual, like the decision had already been made.

‎And somehow, it had.

‎I stayed.

‎I stood there, an obedient doll while the others laughed, drank, and played. But no one touched me again. No one dared. Because Damien Voss didn’t make suggestions. He gave commands.

‎Hours blurred.

‎Eventually, he dismissed them one by one. A nod. A glance. And they left, like loyal dogs retreating into the night.

‎Then it was just us.

‎The silence grew thick, curling around me like smoke.

‎He turned toward me again, slower this time, more deliberate. His eyes pinned me in place.

‎“Come here,” he said.

‎My breath caught. I hesitated, just for a second.

‎“I... what?”

‎“You heard me.”

‎My feet moved. I closed the distance between us, step by step, my pulse a riot under my skin.

‎He stood.

‎Tall. Towering. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, something dark and expensive and undeniably male. The heat rolling off his body clashed with the cold air still clinging to my skin.

‎He raised a hand and traced the side of my face with his knuckles. I flinched, not from fear, but from how much I wanted more.

‎“I want you,” he said.

‎My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

‎His hand slid down from my cheek to the curve of my neck, then lower. My chest rose and fell too fast. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

‎When his palm cupped my breast through the corset, I gasped. My thighs pressed together instinctively. The heat between them pulsed in sync with his touch.

‎He squeezed softly, then dragged his thumb across the peak until it hardened further. I was wet, embarrassingly so. And he hadn’t even kissed me.

‎I should have stopped him.

‎But I didn’t.

‎I needed his hands lower. I needed him to tease me, finger me until I was shaking, begging, undone.

‎He paused. Met my eyes again.

‎“I don’t do romance,” he said flatly. “I fuck. And you beg me to let you cum.”

‎The words slammed into me like lightning, raw and brutal and honest.

‎And God help me, I wanted that.

‎The tension in my body snapped tight like a wire stretched too far. I didn’t even recognize the girl standing there anymore. The one who just wanted a paycheck and a little peace.

‎That girl was gone.

‎Burned away under Damien Voss’s gaze.

‎And as he sat back down, legs spread, eyes never leaving mine, I knew one thing with certainty:

‎This was the night I stopped being mine.

‎This was the night I started becoming his.