When Corden Nash took over as the crime lord of New Jersey, he swore he'd never fall in love. His one goal in mind has been to burn Rafino Rossi and everything he's ever built into the ground after murdering his father. But when Carmen Abdullahi sho...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I can feel the heat of Corden's stare along my back as I lead the way to the Red Room, wondering what the actual hell I'm doing. I know absolutely nothing about Corden, but the man offered me ten thousand dollars for a private dance, and although I'm a co-owner of a very successful flower shop, I'm a far cry away from being wealthy. Ten thousand dollars could be life-changing.
Pushing open a soundproof door, it opens into a dimly lit room with a red glow. Sensual music plays softly through the speakers, and in the middle of the room is a small circular stage with a single pole. A cushioned leather couch sits directly in front of it, a perfect viewing setup for Corden.
Despite this being my first time, I refuse to let my nerves take over. Dancing is what I was born for, so I climb onto the stage in my stilettos and grip the pole, pointing to the leather couch. "Are you going to sit, or would you prefer to stand and watch?"
A flicker of emotion passes across his face before his lips tilt into a grin. With one hand, he smooths out the invisible creases of his suit before he takes a seat in front of the stage. His long legs are parted, an arm draped over the back of the couch, and it bothers me how effortless he makes it. Every movement seems to be calculated.
With his eyes locked on mine, I grip the pole and do a tiny swing to get used to the weight before I pull myself fully onto it. My thighs grip the metal as I continue to hoist myself towards the ceiling. Then, I release the pole with my hands and lean backward until I'm hanging upside down, exposing my chest and stomach to him. I twirl in slow, precise circles until I reach the bottom, using my hands again to turn myself upright. I'm on my knees now on the stage, and I keep my eyes locked on his as I do a body roll with my hands above my head on the pole.
Any initial smugness is gone from Corden's face. He's staring at me as if I'm a meal he wants to devour, and the thrill it sends through my body is frightening. I normally couldn't care less about men's opinions, but my mind is racing while I attempt to figure out what he's thinking.
"Where are you from?" he asks.
I still my movements for a heartbeat before I continue. "Here."
"Try again. I can..." His voice trails off when I slide my back down against the pole, parting my thighs for him. I don't miss the shifting he does of his pants. "I can hear the slight accent," he finishes.
Damn. Sometimes I forget my roots have followed me to America. Not that I would ever want to forget them, and I try my best not to, but it can slip my mind from time to time.
Giving Corden a piece of truth isn't going to reveal itself to him. I'm still Hadari, so knowing where I came from won't give away too much.
"Nigeria," I reply truthfully. "I moved here when I was younger with my aunt."
"Where in Nigeria?"
I arch a brow, walking slowly around the pole. "I didn't realize a private dance included talking about my personal life. We're supposed to keep that separate from here."
