Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 29 Get Up and Put On A Show

Chapter 29: 29 Get Up and Put On A Show

Lara POV

"Welcome back, sir," the waitress purred, gazing up at Emmanuel from beneath long false lashes. "What can I get for you?"

"A negroni and a virgin mojito."

"Yes, sir. Anything else I can do for you?"

She spread her thighs, the short apron barely covering her thighs, wearing nothing beneath it.

I looked away sharply, my nails digging into my palms hard enough to sting.

A faint smirk tugged at Emmanuel’s mouth.

"That will be all."

At the next table, barely six feet away, two men had a waitress bent over between them. One was buried deep in her ass, thrusting with slow, powerful strokes, while the other fucked her mouth. Her muffled, wet moans blended obscenely with the sultry singing on stage. The wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh filled the air.

My thighs pressed together involuntarily.

"What do you think?" Emmanuel asked.

"Nothing I haven’t seen before," I said, injecting far more confidence into my voice than I actually felt.

Emmanuel turned to look at the stage.

The singer was getting close, cheeks flushed, voice breaking into desperate, wrecked moans as she rode the pole harder.

"The girls here are very well paid. But they are not here simply for the money. They are here because it fulfils their fantasies—because they yearn to be used."

His gaze slid across the table, prickling my skin with a silent question. Or maybe, not a question but a statement.

That is what you want.

I hated how my body reacted to that low, rough timbre—how my nipples tightened against the thin fabric of my dress and my pulse fluttered wildly in my throat.

The waitress returned, bending over provocatively as she set our drinks on the table. Emmanuel didn’t even glance at her.

"Is this what you want, Lara?" he said in a tone of casual conversation, "Is this what you would rather be doing?"

"Yes," I said with gritted teeth. It had become a point of pride now. I wasn’t going to go back on what I said, no matter if every word Emmanuel said sounded like a trap closing in.

"So be it."

Emmanuel clicked his fingers.

The waitress immediately leaned in close. He spoke quietly into her ear, his lips brushing near her skin, but his eyes never left mine. She nodded and went to the side of the stage to speak to the sound guy.

On stage, the singer finished with a shattering cry and stepped down on shaky heels. The pole retreated into the floor with a low mechanical whirl, leaving the spotlight empty and waiting.

Emmanuel leaned further across the table, close enough that I caught the warm scent of his cologne and the heat of his breath.

"Go on up there," he said. "If this is what you would rather be doing — get up there and put on a show."

I glanced at the stage. At the hungry eyes of the audience. Then back at Emmanuel—sitting there like sin incarnate, dark hair perfectly tousled, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips as he waited for me to break.

I scoffed.

Just this? Did he think I was some innocent damsel too shy to get up there? Maybe I had never made a show like this before, but I was not the highest earner at The Red Door for nothing. I was always up for a challenge.

"Fine," I said brightly.

I got to my feet with a savage smile.

Putting a sway into my step, I walked towards the stage. With every step, I let myself turn from Lara into Emerald.

A few low cat-calls and appreciative whistles cut through the sensual haze as I stepped onto the stage.

The spotlight hit me, hot and exposing.

Dozens of eyes devoured my body, sliding over every curve.

A middle aged man with thinning hair leaned forward, elbows against his table, as I wrapped my fingers around the microphone.

I smiled at him, slow and sultry, as I had sold smiles to many men before.

Who they were didn’t matter to me, but I could sell them a fantasy.

"Give me your, give me your love," I began to sing.

I always had a good singing voice; I used to sing lullabies to Chloe when we were young and she wouldn’t go to sleep.

As the music pulsed around me, I ran my hands slowly down my sides, stroking over my hips and thighs before hitching up the hem of my tight black dress.

I gave the room a teasing flash of the red lace thong underneath.

The crowd’s energy shifted, growing hungrier.

"Show us your tits," someone called out.

My smile faltered a moment.

Shame tried to creep in, but I shoved it down and painted the sultry expression back on.

I hooked my fingers into the neckline of my dress and slowly pulled it down, letting my breasts spill free into the warm spotlight.

The crowd roared with approval.

The mood in the Salon was higher than ever, a sexual frenzy that seized everyone in the audience.

A man with gold rings glinting on his stubby fingers pushed a waitress to her knees in front of him, but his greedy eyes never left me as the girl’s head began bobbing between his legs.

Beneath my feet, the pole rose from the stage again. This time it wasn’t fitted with a dildo — it was a powerful vibrator wand.

The thick, rounded head pressed firmly against my pussy, right over my clit through the thin lace. The sudden, intense vibration ripped a gasp from my throat.

My voice hitched into a breathy moan mid-lyric.

I couldn’t stop myself. My eyes searched the back of the room through the haze of lights and lust, seeking him.

Emmanuel Sagres sat in the shadows in the back of the room—perfectly tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders, dark hair falling in flawless waves, those razor-sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes cutting straight through the distance between us.

He watched me with unnerving intensity, one finger lazily tapping the side of his glass.

Why did a man so loathsome have to look like that?

Compared to him, every other man with their eyes glued to my body looked unattractive and uninspiring. Their leers felt cheap.

Only Emmanuel’s gaze on me made me burn: with frustration, loathing, passion — nothing soft. Nothing sweet. But it never made me feel like I was withering inside like it did with other men.

Okay, so I lied when I said that he was just another client.

Of course he wasn’t.

But I couldn’t let him win.

I tried to tear my eyes away, but they kept drifting back to him, drawn like a magnet. As I sang the chorus again, voice growing breathier, I saw him visibly, deliberately, press a button on a remote, holding my gaze all the while.

The vibrator suddenly surged to a higher setting.

I choked on the next line, a sharp, involuntary moan tearing from my lips as pleasure slammed into me. My hips jerked forward against the wand. My thighs trembled.

Emmanuel’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smirk.

Bastard.

Everyone else in the room seemed to disappear, lost in this private game between the two of us.

I tore my gaze away from him, cheeks burning, and tried to finish the song.

The relentless pulsing between my legs pushed me higher and higher, right to the razor’s edge. My nipples were tight, my pussy soaked and aching.

I was so close—

—and just like that, the vibrator switched off.

Fuck!

The sudden denial left me throbbing and desperate, frustration burning through my veins. I glared across the room at him.

Of course, Emmanuel didn’t look the least bit guilty. He simply hooked two fingers in a slow, come hither gesture, his eyes dark with hunger.

I scowled, yanking the hem of my dress down and pulling the neckline back up over my heaving breasts. My legs wobbled slightly in my heels as I stepped off the stage, the weight of every eye in the room still on me.