Artwork

Chapter 1 - Adaline Seitz

I swear I'll break the man's head off if he dares to touch my inner thigh once again in which he thinks is only a subtle squeeze hidden from prying eyes thanks to the long table.

Furthermore, he's happily married and raising two young girls that probably have no idea their daddy fucks around along his business partners during the apparent busy evenings. The wedding ring adorning his finger is only verifying the article I read about him some time ago.

The fake smile is abusing the muscles of my cheeks, my fingers clenching the fine glass with much more force than necessary. My brain is not registering the carefree chatter or the lively music flowing in my ears, only focusing on the large, incredibly moist hand resting on my bare skin.

The man's intentions are clear. He wants to fuck me.

Mr Kyun is just another regular customer that thinks having an infinite amount of money on his bank account will miraculously bend the rules I set even before applying for this job. Yes, he's handsome and holding up pretty well for his age, but still - no fucking means exactly that.

No fucking.

Unfortunately, he's going with the policy that persistency is the key to getting what he wants, but he's overlooking the crucial fact that I'm a human being and not some business negotiation he can easily manipulate with.

A reassuring smile guided my way from one of the girls opposite me isn't soothing at all, especially when I notice her right breast get harshly squashed between the fingers of another very drunk businessman.

The sigh of relief that escapes my lips is more audible than I anticipate when Namjoon, one of the room salon's waiters, enters the secluded space. His towering figure intimidates males sitting around me, his broad shoulders filling the width of the small doorway with ease.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid it's time for the girls to make their way out and let us discuss some details in private." Joonie's eyes peruse the sea of faces in front of him in what seems like a casual look over for the untrained eye.

It's, in fact, a carefully calculated evaluation of all the women inside the packed room. He's searching for anything out of the ordinary that'll make him deal with the situation without any monetary or physical damage.

At least that's what the rules of Seven Nights room salon say.

I glide the tips of my fingers over the man's hand resting on my thigh, trying to get him to realise he needs to release me from his clammy grip if he wants to progress through the night. Fatigue manages to blur my vision when I stand up, my ankles wobbling like a newborn doe on ice.

My stagger transforms into a shiver that rakes through my entire being, arising goosebumps just under my butt where the tenacious hand of the businessman decides to hold me for support.

With a slow intake of breath, I remind myself I'm at my workplace. I'm doing this for years and should be able to diminish my reactions. Still, the males visiting Seven Nights can be quite unpredictable when they combine stress from work with alcohol and skimpily dressed women.

Glancing at the businessman over my shoulder, I lightly sway my hips in a successful attempt to mask my disgust for him by distracting him from my facial expression. Fortunately, he's tipsy enough not to notice, staring at the teasingly jiggling flesh in front of him instead.

A giggly squeal that makes me roll my eyes internally escapes my throat when he smacks my buttcheek, wondering how can I sound like a lolita while wanting nothing more than to rip his intestines out through his asshole.

"Here, take this." One of the girls whose name I don't know even though she's working here for about a month whispers when we walk out of the room, digging inside her bra for something I'm not sure I want to accept.