Chapter 17

Rodrigo's POV

There is nothing different from last time.

Same car.

Same driver.

Same pickup point.

Same sinking feeling sitting like a rock in my stomach.

The only difference now is that I have a face to attach to the nightmare.

Rodrigo.

That’s his name.

Funny how finally knowing someone’s name somehow makes them even more intimidating. Before, he was just some rich asshole with a mansion and zero respect for lube. Now he’s Rodrigo — the rich asshole with a mansion and zero respect for lube.

The black sedan rolls through the towering gates, and that same foreboding feeling washes over me. The kind that settles deep in your chest and whispers, Turn around. Get out while you still can.

Not exactly an option.

Looking back now, it’s almost funny that I genuinely believed I’d never come back here after the first time. Money really is one hell of a superpower. It lets people do whatever they want. And everyone else just adjusts.

The car stops in front of the mansion.

One of the guards opens the door for me. “Right this way.”

I nod and follow him inside.

Nothing has changed. Same polished marble floors. Same expensive artwork. Same eerie silence. Same room at the end of the hall. I step inside while the guard quietly shuts the door behind me.

Well. Guess we’re doing this again.

I place my shoulder bag beside the bed and start unbuttoning my shirt. Might as well save everyone some time.

I’d barely gotten the second button undone when the door opens again.

I jump.

Rodrigo’s bodyguard walks in. I instinctively cover myself before immediately realizing how stupid that is. Seriously, Chris? You’re an escort. What exactly are you trying to protect here?

The tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth tells me he’s asking himself the exact same question.

Fantastic.

He gives me a quick once-over. “The Don is on his way.” His voice is calm, professional. He glances toward the small bar. “Would you like something to drink while you wait?”

I blink. Hospitality. Wasn’t expecting that. “No. Thank you.”

A single nod. Then he’s gone.

The room falls quiet again. I let out the breath I’d been holding. Buttoning my shirt back up feels pointless now, so I don’t bother. I sit on the edge of the bed and look around. Same oversized bed. Same fireplace. Same expensive furniture. Same room that somehow manages to feel colder than the air conditioner could ever make it.

To kill time, I pull out my phone. One reel turns into another. Then another. At this point, social media should start paying people for emotional support.

I don’t notice how much time passes until the door swings open.

Bang.

I look up.

He’s here.

Rodrigo.

Knowing his name changes everything. He feels bigger. Not physically. Just heavier. Like the room suddenly belongs to him the second he walks in.

He’s not wearing a tailored suit this time. Instead, he’s dressed in a dark purple robe trimmed with gold, hanging loosely over his broad shoulders, exposing the tattooed planes of his chest and the trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband.

Does this man ever wear a shirt?

Not that I’m looking.

I’m absolutely looking.

Fuck.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. Walks past like I’m not even there. Heads to the cabinet in the corner, opens a drawer, removes a polished wooden cigar case. Takes one. Lights it. The scent of expensive tobacco fills the room. Then he pours himself a drink — whiskey, probably something that costs more than my monthly rent.

He drags the desk chair to the foot of the bed. Turns it around. Sits. One leg crossed over the other. Glass in one hand. Cigar in the other.

And then he just stares.

Jesus Christ. What is this? An interview?

I can practically feel his eyes moving over me. Slowly. Patiently. Like he’s studying something. It’s weird. It’s creepy. And honestly — if you’re going to do whatever you brought me here to do, just do it already.

The silence is making it worse.

Unable to take it anymore, I reach for the buttons on my shirt. Might as well get things moving. I undo another button. Then another.

“Did I tell you to undress?”

His voice cuts through the room like a blade. Deep. Calm. Whiskey-soaked.

I freeze.

I swear the sound of it runs straight down my spine, settles hot somewhere low in my gut. My fingers stop midway through the third button.

“Look at me.”

Not a request. Not even close.

Slowly, I lift my head.

Those silver eyes. Cold. Unreadable. Locked onto mine without blinking. He’s still lounging comfortably in the chair like this is the most normal thing in the world, half a glass of whiskey resting lazily in his hand.

“Get up.”

I obey before my brain catches up. Standing suddenly feels a lot more uncomfortable than sitting ever did. My hands instinctively drift behind my back.

He notices. Of course he notices. He’s looking at me the way someone examines a painting before deciding whether it’s worth buying. His gaze drags — deliberately, insolently — from my face down the length of my body, lingering at the half-open shirt, the waistband of my trousers, the growing tightness I can’t seem to control.

“Undress.”

I hesitate. This is getting really fucking weird. Still, I finish unbuttoning my shirt. It slips from my shoulders. Then my trousers. I step out of them.

Standing there in nothing but my underwear.

Surely that’s enough.

I look at him. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. He just keeps staring. Waiting.

“I said…” His voice hardens. “Undress.”

Oh.

Right.

The underwear.

Fuck.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband and slowly slide it down, my cock springing free, half-hard already from the sheer fucking tension of this game he’s playing. I step out of the briefs and stand there. Bare. Completely exposed to the cool air of the room.

His gaze never leaves me. Those silver eyes travel the length of my body again, slower this time. Taking in the shape of my thighs. The curve of my ass. The way my cock twitches under his attention, betraying every ounce of composure I’m trying to hold together.

He takes another slow sip of whiskey. Then leans forward slightly. The silence stretches. Long enough for me to start wondering if I’ve somehow failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.

Shame flares hot across my skin. I want to cover myself. Want to hide the evidence of how much this is affecting me. But I don’t. Can’t. His eyes hold me in place more effectively than any restraint.

Then: “Go take a shower.”

He gestures toward the bathroom.

I blink. Do I stink? I showered before leaving home. Used deodorant. What exactly is the issue?

No answer comes. Only the expectation that I’ll do as I’m told.

I head into the bathroom. The moment the door closes behind me, I look at myself in the mirror. My face is flushed. My cock still half-hard, betraying me completely.

“What is wrong with this guy?” I mutter under my breath.

I still don’t have an answer.

I step beneath the warm spray, and the water runs over my skin, washing away some of the tension that had settled there during the drive. For a few minutes, I can almost pretend I’m somewhere else. Almost. But my body doesn’t forget. The heat low in my stomach doesn’t dissipate. My cock doesn’t soften.

Eventually, I dry off and wrap a towel around my waist before stepping back into the bedroom.

He’s exactly where I left him. Same chair. Same drink. Same unreadable expression.

I stop in front of him. Waiting. Apparently that’s what tonight is. Waiting for instructions.

If someone ever made a movie about my life, people would walk out halfway through because they’d think the script was too ridiculous to be believable.

He looks at me. Then speaks.

“Take off the towel.”

I close my eyes for the briefest second. Of course. I pull the towel away and let it fall. My cock stands fully erect now, no point pretending otherwise. The cool air kisses the flushed tip and I have to fight back a shiver.

His expression doesn’t change. But I catch it — the barest flicker in those silver eyes. Something dark. Something satisfied.

“Sit.”

He points toward the edge of the bed.

I sit. Facing him. The mattress dips under my weight. My cock rests heavy against my thigh, painfully hard, and there’s no hiding it. No covering it. He can see exactly what he does to me.

Our eyes meet again. The room falls silent except for the crackle of the fireplace and the noiseless hum of the air con.

Then his next command comes. Calm. Measured.

“Spread your legs.”

I exhale slowly. Finally. At least this strange game seems to be moving somewhere. I do as I’m told, letting my thighs fall open, exposing everything. My ass presses against the edge of the mattress. My cock stands upright, flushed and leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

He watches it. Studies it. Takes a slow drag of his cigar and lets the smoke curl from his lips before finally setting the glass aside.

He doesn’t move toward me. Doesn’t touch me. Just leans back in that chair like he has all the time in the world, those silver eyes roaming over every inch of my exposed body.

“Touch yourself.”

The words land like a physical blow.

I stare at him. My brain short-circuits. Touch myself? Here? In front of him?

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”