'Til The Job Do Us Part

Jesse didn’t like these kinds of places.

Too many shadows. Too many eyes. Too many ghosts he didn’t care to name.

Still, he found himself in a corner booth at Club Halo, sipping cheap whiskey through the sweat of his glove, boots kicked up on the opposite seat like he owned it. Graves had sent him to watch a Araneum supplier with a habit of laundering money through local joints, this being one of them. His mark hadn’t shown.

So, he sat in the smoke-soaked haze, stilettos passing him by, men leering and stuffing bills into panties bathed in sweat and vanilla.

It wasn’t his usual joint. He could see the appeal of bronzed skin and nothing left to the imagination, sure, but he couldn’t shake the pure sleaze dripping down his shoulders. He couldn’t act like he was above this, but he did have standards.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t move until he got what he wanted. Needed, more like it. He didn’t want to be here doing this, but orders were orders, and the boss man would’ve been none too happy if he came back to headquarters empty-handed. So, whiskey and studiously avoiding eye contact with every pretty woman in the building it was, at least until he caught a whiff of the sour bastard currently eluding him.

He waved off the third dancer with a flash of his fingers and the barest smile. “Mm-mm. I don’t do lap dances, sweetheart. Not unless they come with dinner first.”

She pouted, gave his hat a teasing tug, and sauntered off with her hips swinging. He let his gaze drift after her for exactly one second before breathing slow and going back to his drink.

He wasn’t here for tits and glitter. He’d had plenty of both in his day, and most of it had left him broke, bruised, or badly needing antibiotics. He wasn’t interested in anything that purred in his ear and reeked of desperation.

Besides, he knew the look women got when they were working a room. He’d seen it a hundred times, hell, maybe a thousand. The same empty smile, the same practiced bend of the back. It didn’t move him anymore. He’d spent too many years around the kind of men who thought throwing money at a woman made them worth something.

So no, Jesse Mercer didn’t get distracted. Not by pretty girls or perfect asses or soft fingers on his shoulder. He was locked in. Unbothered. Untouchable.

Until the announcer leaned into the mic and purred, “Please welcome… Celeste.”

And he made the mistake of looking up.

Maybe it was the sudden hush of the regulars. Maybe it was the breathy way the DJ said her name. Maybe it was instinct, the same gut-deep pull he felt right before a fight.

Whatever it was, it made his eyes snap to the stage.

And there she was.

She didn’t just walk out. She glided. Like smoke with legs and hips you’d die grateful between. She wore red, barely. Ribbons of satin clung to her curves, made for her and only her. Every inch of her was soft, lush, purposeful. Skin kissed golden, thighs thick and shimmering under the lights, her stomach soft and sensual in a way that punched him straight in the gut.

She didn’t smile, not at first.

She looked.

At the crowd, at the lights, at him.

And when her eyes met his — brown, warm, knowing — he forgot what he was drinking. Forgot what he was doing, forgot why the hell he was even there.

She rolled her hips to the music, a secret just for him, dragging her hands down the sides of her waist, pausing just above the curve of her ass. The slow twirl of her body revealed a backless cut and red lace dipping below the curve of her spine. Her hair, dark and wavy, tumbled over one shoulder like she’d just come undone.

Jesse shifted in his seat.

Jesus Christ.

She moved as temptation with a purpose. Like she’d been some sculpted in some back alley cathedral just to be worshiped under bad lighting and worse intentions.

Her tits, soft and full, bounced with every slow strut, supported by just enough fabric to make a man imagine peeling it off. Her thighs met at the top with a curve that made his fingers twitch, and that ass—

He clenched his jaw and forced his legs a little wider under the table. Heat pulsed low in his gut, blood pooling somewhere far from his damn brain. He felt himself hardening, slowly, his own body mocking his earlier smugness.

No. This was different.

He didn’t know how, but this wasn’t like the rest. She was something else entirely.

She didn’t start slow.

No teasing shuffle or shy eye contact, just that deep arch of her back as the beat dropped, rolling her body, a wave meant to drown a man.

The music hit low and sultry, a bass heavy slow grind, and the lights dipped to bathe her in crimson. Blood red, black shadowed, and glowing. Her heels clicked on the stage, then she sank into a split so smooth it made his throat close.

Men at the edge of the platform started to howl.

Bills fluttered, green confetti falling at her feet. Twenties, fifties, maybe a hundred from the drunk asshole in the front row. And she didn’t even look at them. Didn’t need to.

Jesse watched her head tilt back, long hair cascading down her back.

Her thighs flexed as she pushed up, dragging her hands along her legs, over her hips, up her waist, then cupping her own breasts with a gentle squeeze that made a low sound rumble in his chest.

She turned and bent at the waist. Slapped her own ass. The crowd erupted.

Jesse’s jaw clenched so tight his molars could’ve shifted.

She spun, hooked one leg around the pole, and climbed. Not like a gymnast, but seduction in motion. Smooth and sensual, purposeful. She perched halfway up, bracing with her thighs, and leaned back until her body formed a perfect arc, then dropped.

She caught herself in a slow spiral, skin shimmering with sweat and body oil, the lights painting her curves.

Jesse’s mouth went dry. His cock was already pressing against his jeans, and he didn’t care. He barely remembered why he’d come here. Every molecule of his attention was on the way her body moved, how nothing about her felt fake. There were no smiles thrown out of obligation, no wildness, no pretending to be something she wasn’t.

She was pure fucking power wrapped in glitter and thighs.

At one point, she crouched low at the front of the stage, knees wide, ass nearly touching the floor, and rolled her hips in tight little circles that made his breath catch.

Then, then, she looked straight at him.

Not a glance, not a scan of the room. Him.

And she smiled. As if she already knew she had him by the balls, as if she knew exactly what kind of thoughts were running through his head, how he was picturing those thighs around his face. How he was imagining untying the red satin at her hip with his teeth. How he was already lost to her spell.

The music slowed again, the lights fading warmer, gold now, softening her into something even more dangerous — tangible.

She dropped to her knees and began to crawl. Jesse didn’t dare move a muscle.

She crawled along the edge of the stage, tossing a wink to the man on her left, dragging her nails along the floor. A bartender whistled and someone else swore under his breath.

She was magnetic.

When she reached the edge of Jesse’s table, she knelt.

One hand on the floor, the other against her own thigh, lips parted just slightly.

And then she did something that made his spine lock up.

She blew him a kiss and beckoned.

Come get me, cowboy.

The lights dimmed with a snap, and just like that, she was gone.

Jesse exhaled for the first time in what felt like a goddamn decade, shoulders tight beneath his coat. He blinked, dragging a hand down his face like it might shake something loose. Like it might bring his blood back to his brain instead of keeping it stubbornly locked between his legs.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

He took a sip of whiskey, barely registering the taste. He was too old to be getting thrown off center by a pair of soft thighs and a sinful gaze, no matter how good she looked. No matter how well she moved. He’d seen beautiful women before. Hell, he’d fucked beautiful women before.

This was just a job, a stop on a mission, a warm body with a stage name and rhinestones.

Not his problem.

He rolled his neck, adjusted his seat, and mumbled to himself, “You’re not here to get your dick wet, Mercer. You’re here to find the supplier. Get the intel. Get out.”

He repeated it twice under his breath, then chased it with another mouthful of whiskey.

And then, the worst possible thing for his self-control happened.

He smelled her before he saw her; vanilla and sweat and something faintly floral. His eyes darted up.

She was standing right in front of him. Not on the stage, but at his table.

Up close, she was even worse. No, better. Bare skin dusted with shimmer, cheeks flushed from exertion, lips painted wine-dark and curved in a smile that was just for him.

“Hey, cowboy,” she purred, soft like velvet on sore skin. “You looked like you enjoyed the show.”

Jesse said nothing. He couldn’t. He was too busy trying to remember how to swallow.

Her gaze dipped to the bulge in his jeans and she had the audacity to smile wider.

“Wanna come with me?” she asked, dragging a perfectly manicured nail across the table between them. “Private room’s open. You look like you need to relax.”

He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help the dryness. “I’m good right here.”

She tilted her head. “Mm. You sure? You’ve been staring at me and have clearly forgotten how to blink.”

Jesse opened his mouth to come up with something, anything, but she leaned down and placed a single hand on his thigh, light as a feather but enough to make his vision blur at the edges.

Her breath hit his ear. “You don’t have to touch,” she whispered. “You can just sit back and enjoy.”

Then she straightened, all temptation in red satin and soft, thick thighs, and held out her hand. “Well?”

Jesse stared at it.

Then he drained the rest of his whiskey, slowly set the glass down, and stood. He didn’t take her hand, but he sure as fuck followed her. A little fun couldn’t hurt. Not like I’m bein’ entertained otherwise.

Besides, who knew when his target would show. No better way to pass the time, he supposed.

The room was warm and dim. The club music vibrated through hidden speakers, a smokier version of the beat she danced to before.

There was no stage or lights here. Just a couch, two shadows, and the heat building between them.

Jesse sat where she told him, legs wide, hands planted firmly on his thighs. His jaw was clenched and he didn’t know what to do with his fingers.

She hadn’t even touched him yet, and he was already throbbing.

Celeste turned the lock behind her with a soft click, and then she leaned against the door with one hand and tilted her head. Her lips curved. Not innocent or coy, but confident in a way that held his throat in a vice. She knew what she looked like and what she was doing.

She stalked forward in slow steps, her heels clicking against the polished floor, red satin dangling tantalizingly with every shift of her hips. The room smelled of her now; warm vanilla, sweat, clean skin, and something floral clinging to those thick chocolate locks.

Jesse dragged in a breath, needing it more than ever to stay conscious.

She climbed into his lap without a word. One knee at a time, soft thighs brushing the outsides of his. Her body lowered slow, just enough weight to make his cock twitch. His hands barely stayed where they were.

“Still good right here?” she whispered, her lips ghosting over his own.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was dry and his brain was useless. She was so close. All curve and heat and temptation. Her skin shimmered in the low light, her eyes watching him, soft and stabbing all at once.

Then, she moved.

Her hips rolled forward, dragging against his lap in a slow, perfect grind. Her core brushed the bulge in his jeans with devastating accuracy, and Jesse grunted, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.

She smiled and there was no question if she heard it, no less felt it.

She took it as the cue to do it again.

She leaned back, letting her hands trail down her own body, cupping her breasts, squeezing gently, then sliding between her thighs and up her stomach, painstaking and sensual. Every movement was a show just for him. A private ritual of you’re not allowed to touch, but god, don’t you want to?

Jesse’s hands had a hard time staying by his thighs. His cock ached, painfully hard now. She wasn’t even pretending to keep distance; her ass dragged against him in a perfect, teasing rhythm, back and forth, up and down, grinding deep when the beat hit just right.

He was imagining how she’d sound if he had her under him. Not just riding his lap, but riding his cock. Slow, messy, greedy. Her hands in his hair, her voice in his ear, her legs locked around his waist and her body pulling him deeper, over and over.

His mind went too filthy too fast.

He wanted to see her fall apart. Wanted her to beg. He wanted to mouth at her tits, drag his tongue across her stomach, bury his face between her legs until she screamed.

And god, he wanted to hear it. Hear her moan his name, whimper for more, say please like it would kill her not to be fucked.

And she just kept moving. Her lips brushed hotly against his cheek. “You okay, cowboy?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Not too much for you?”

His breath shuddered when he exhaled. “Not nearly enough.”

That made her laugh, and Christ, it curled like smoke in his lungs.

She leaned in, close enough that her breasts pressed against his chest, her thighs straddling him tight. She brought her mouth to his ear again and breathed. “You know you’re not allowed to touch me, right?”

He swallowed. “You’re the only one touchin’ me right now, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” She rocked her hips forward with fatal pressure. “Doesn’t feel that way from where I’m sitting.”

His hips jerked involuntarily, rutting up just a little too eagerly. It made her smile again; smug, knowing, and just a tad irritating.

She brought her hands to his shoulders, bracing herself, and rolled her whole body against him in hungry motions. Her thighs clenched around his, her breath hitched for real this time, and Jesse nearly came right there.

He didn’t, but it was fucking close.

He gritted out, “You always do your job like this?”

She nuzzled his jaw. “Only when the client’s cute.”

“You do this with every man who gets hard in your lap?”

She stilled for half a second. “No.” And then she kissed his cheek, right at the edge of his mouth. He had a feeling it wasn’t part of the act, but he was too lust drunk to think about calling her out on it.

She slid off him slowly, silk slipping from skin, and stood tall.

Jesse didn’t move. Couldn’t, really, not with the way his dick was about to pounce from his jeans.

“Thanks for the company,” she said. “You needed it.”

She winked, and then walked out the door, her hips fresh in his mind and her scent lingering like she owned his fucking soul.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Jesse sat there, still hard, still aching, and fully ruined.

He blinked once and ran a hand through his hair. Then finally muttered to the empty room: “Fuck.”

He sat there for a long moment after the door shut, chest still heaving in uneven bursts, sweat prickling under the collar of his jacket. His cock throbbed angirly against his zipper, and the dull ache of it dragged his nerves. He brought a hand to his jaw and scrubbed hard, but it did nothing to settle the flush rising beneath his skin. The weight of her was burned into him; her scent on his shirt, her voice in his ear, the way her heat had soaked through the fabric. The beat of the music in the next room vibrated against the walls, a mocking rhythm that reminded him of the one she’d carved into his lap with every grind of her hips.

Goddamn it, he thought. You’re here for intel. You’re not here to fall dick-first into glitter.

But it didn’t matter what he told himself. His body was still in her orbit, drawn to her like a magnet to sin. His hands, laying in his lap, itched to hold her. His brain, the part that wasn’t overheating, kept flashing with images of what he should’ve done: yanked that satin aside, buried himself in her heat, felt her cunt tighten around him as she begged him not to stop. He imagined holding her down while she came for him, her legs shaking and lips parted and voice hoarse from saying his name. He could almost hear it.

And the worst part?

He knew she’d let him.

Not in the room, not tonight. But if he asked again? If he came back with cash in hand and hunger in his eyes? She’d open her thighs and let him lose himself. He was sure of it.

And that certainty made it so much worse.

“Get a fuckin’ grip,” he muttered, dragging his hands over his face. He forced himself upright, still hard, still dazed, still angry in the way only a man who’d been left hanging could be. His boots hit the floor heavy. He blinked twice, shook the leftover lust out of his head — tried to, anyway — and reminded himself why he was here.

The mission. The target. Araneum.

The supplier had to be here somewhere, tucked in the shadows of Club Halo, washing blood money through a place full of distraction and scent and sound. That’s what Graves sent him here for. That was the whole goddamn reason he was sipping watered-down whiskey in a place that reeked of dollar bills and desperation.

Jesse rolled his shoulders, adjusted himself with a hiss, and muttered, “I’ll give it ten more minutes. Then I’m out.” He turned toward the door and patted down his jacket out of habit, checking for his lighter, his badge, his burner.

But something was off.

He paused, brows knitting, then patted the inside of his coat, again, harder this time.

He checked his back pocket, his inner breast pocket, his belt holster.

No wallet.

And definitely no drive.

His stomach dropped.

That familiar twist of instinct, the one that always meant something had gone sideways, coiled hot and fast in his gut.

No. No fucking way.

He rifled through every layer of his coat, breath picking up, heat from earlier instantly replaced with something far colder and far meaner. He checked the floor, the seat, even the cushions of the fucking couch. Nothing.

The drive was gone.

The thumb drive. The thumb drive.

The one with sensitive encrypted DDI data on four suspected Araneum shell corporations, cafe house locations, and agent aliases. The one Graves had specifically told him not to lose. The one he’d stashed in his inside pocket because no one was supposed to get close enough to find it.

But someone had, and now it was gone. And with it, she was gone.

“Son of a bitch,” Jesse whispered, standing fully now, the fire of fury creeping under his skin.

Because the only thing that made sense, the only explanation, was that while Celeste was grinding on him like a goddamn fever dream, she’d also had the audacity to rob him blind, and he hadn’t even noticed. Not until she was long gone.

He shoved the door open with a force that made the bouncer jump. The bass hit him, bright lights and perfume-laced air slamming into his already fried senses. His boots hit the floor fast and heavy as he stalked back into the main room, scanning every corner, every booth, every silhouette in cheap lingerie and heels.

Celeste was nowhere.

He checked the bar first — empty. No chocolate waves of hair, no red satin, no wicked little smile hovering around a drink straw. He checked the far booths next, pushing past drunk businessmen and college boys too deep in tits and tequila to notice him.

Nothing.

He made a lap around the stage, his jaw clenched, breathing heavy. The dancer currently working the pole was too tall, too blonde, and not her. Not even close. Another girl walked past him in glitter and lace and he grabbed her wrist, not gently.

“Where is she?” he snapped.

The dancer blinked at him, startled. “Who?”

“Celeste.”

Recognition flickered behind her lashes. She looked over her shoulder, then leaned in with a shrug. “She clocked out a few minutes ago. Left out the back.”

A few minutes ago? She’d just walked out of that room.

His stomach twisted with something molten and ugly.

He let go of the girl’s arm and she walked off quick, muttering under her breath. Jesse didn’t hear her. Couldn’t. Rage was building in his chest, spreading out into his ribs, his throat, the space behind his eyes.

He stormed toward the back hall, where the velvet ropes cut off employee access. One hard look at the bouncer stationed nearby and the man stepped aside. Jesse pushed through a black curtain and into a hallway lined with dressing rooms, lockers, makeup mirrors still glowing in the haze.

“Celeste?” he barked. “Hey! Celeste!”

No answer.

He checked the first two dressing rooms, empty save for the scent of perfume and half-empty tumblers of vodka. A pair of lashes sat discarded in a sink. A feather boa hung limp from a chair. No red satin, no glitter, no her.

By the time he kicked open the back door and stepped into the alley, he was practically shaking.

The air hit him cold and silent.

A few dumpsters, a cigarette still burning on the ground, a red neon flickering in the rain-pocked puddles. But no trace of her. Not a single heel mark or whisper of perfume. Not even the sound of retreating footsteps.

She was gone.

Vanished.

A goddamn ghost in satin. And she’d taken everything.

Jesse dragged both hands down his face. His heart pounded, not with lust this time, but fury. Embarrassment. Dread. He paced three long steps, turned on his heel, then yanked out his burner phone from his pocket and hit Graves’s number.

It rang once.

“Mercer,” came the voice, tired on the other end.

Jesse stared at the brick wall across from him, praying for mercy from anything other than his commander. His teeth were clenched so tightly he could’ve lost one.

“It’s gone.”

A pause. “What is?”

Jesse swallowed, throat dry. “The drive.”

Another pause, longer this time. Then: “Excuse me?”

“She took it.” His voice was low. Controlled even if he didn’t have any. “The girl. The dancer. Celeste. She took the fuckin’ drive.”

Graves exhaled on the other end.

And Jesse stood there in the alley, cock still half-hard, blood hot, breath fogging in the air as the full weight of it hit him.

He’d just been played.

Hard.