Hungry Heart - eBook

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Rosie

They say love is a warm, tingly feeling, but I wouldn't know.

My V-card is still intact, and I’ve never been in love.

I'm holding out for the one.

But when my intern teacher turns out to be the same man I once threw a drink on, I'm inexplicably drawn to him for the next six weeks.

He is a brillant CEO.

A ruthless mogul.

Arrogant and intense.

According to rumors, he's also a skilled pleasure-giver and dominant lover.

He’s in my life whether I like it or not.

I don't know if he’s here to torment or pleasure me.

But, I can’t escape him.

And I'm not entirely sure I want to.


Vincent

She is a lingerie waitress and my new intern.

Beautiful and fiery like a force of nature.

I have a certain type.

Rosie isn’t it.

I’m here to find the truth about my brother’s murder, that's it.

That should stop me from chasing her, but it doesn’t.

My desire for her overshadows my need to let her go.

So she hates me. So what?

I'm not going anywhere.

Hungry Heart is a complete standalone and part of the Slater Siblings Series.


Have you ever felt that warm, tingly sensation that washes over you when you listen to your favorite song or watch your favorite movie?

It’s the moment when emotion takes over your senses, and you’re left with a scattering of goose bumps splintering across your skin or a deep exhalation after holding your breath without even knowing.

Sometimes, it is a fluttery sensation in the depths of your stomach or a slash of heat across your chest. It’s a feeling that permeates through you, transcending worries or fears, exciting you while also cloaking you with an unexplainable sense of calm. And at that moment, nothing else seems to matter.

Even as the world around you crumbles to ashes, your focus remains solely on that one feeling.
I imagine that’s what love is.
I imagine because the truth is, I have absolutely no clue.
I’m twenty-two and still a virgin. 
Yes.

Seriously.
After my mom’s death in a car crash just after my high school graduation, love and sex took a back seat. My focus shifted to learning how to survive. As a result, my experience with love is limited to a string of unsuccessful relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. Yet, every time I read Darcy or Brontë, I have that feeling. I’m guessing that’s what love feels like, and I’m clinging to that hope with both hands.


My roommates, Sara and Ethan, like to call me a pathetic romantic and a foxy bitch. But honestly, I don’t mind it because they always keep it real with me. Yeah, I know I’m a sucker for a fairy-tale ending, but I also know it’s not always going to be rainbows and butterflies. Still, a girl can dream, right? 


As a die-hard romance novel enthusiast, I spend most of my free time lost in the intricate world of love. However, Sara’s suggestion to check out some ‘recreational’ websites made me realize the need to expand my knowledge beyond the realm of idealistic love stories.
Let’s be real here—I don’t want to be clueless when it comes to satisfying my future partner. So, I ventured into the uncharted territory of those websites. Mr. Darcy certainly wasn’t offering his secrets on pay-per-view, so I took the initiative and did some research. I’m not willing to sleep with just anyone to improve my skills, but I want to have some basic expertise in the matter.

Sleeping around? That’s not who I am, although you wouldn’t know it if you saw me now.


I place my hands on the smooth, cool surface of the marble vanity and lift my head to meet my gaze in the bathroom mirror. As I stand here, the pervasive bass of the music resonates through every inch of my being.

The vibrations are so strong that they seem to penetrate even the most intimate parts of my body, heightening my sense of awareness and drawing me further into the moment. 
With my hands still resting on the cool marble and my eyes fixed on my reflection, I allow myself to be fully immersed in the pulsing rhythm of the music, feeling its energy and power course through my veins.


It’s two weeks before the January semester returns, and my senior internship begins. I should be reading up on my final subjects and not pulling double shifts at the Vanilla Club, the exclusive gentlemen’s club where I work. 
Fortunately, I’m able to get by with studying less, thanks to my scholarship and decent intellect.


I twist the ends of my blonde wig and adjust the tight black lace bustier trying to cover my barely encased large breasts. It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, nor does the leather pleated mini-skirt that barely covers my bottom. My needle-thin black patent pumps lengthen my legs and round out my slutty and hopefully tip-worthy uniform.
I pick up the perfume bottle and depress the nozzle. A fine cool mist scatters along my collarbone as the scent of orchids fills the space. At the same time, the bathroom door flies open, hitting the tiled wall with a thud.


“Rosie, hurry up!” Kara tosses me an impatient scowl.
Naturally blonde and stunning, Kara has worked at the Vanilla Club for years, showing me the ropes when I started just three months ago. Her eyes lower to my outfit, and her scowl morphs into a dark smile. 
“That bustier is fucking hot. Hello, tips!” She snaps her fingers above her head, and I exhale through a smile.
Damn, I hope so.
My gaze drifts back to the mirror where a long blond wig hides my thick brown hair pinned up in a chignon underneath. Layers of mascara coat my long lashes and frame my hazel eyes. My signature Venetian-red lipstick outlines my cupid bow and makes me feel like Marilyn fucking Monroe. I need that boost of confidence when I’m here, feigning my existence. It’s not easy strutting around pretending you are some sort of sex-kitten to VIPs when in reality, the closest thing you’ve done is kiss a few boys and get groped on prom night.
But that’s irrelevant because I’d pretend to be Donald Duck as long as the tips continue to roll in. 


Manhattan’s Vanilla Club is an exclusive invitation-only nightclub. Based on limited membership and word-of-mouth, it is home to business moguls, entrepreneurs, and celebrities. The exclusive membership is an eye-watering sum of a hundred grand a year, and the owner, Dante Blade, prides himself on the exclusivity of his clubs that have grown legendary. Scattered up and down the East Coast in only the most exclusive sites, Dante is a multimillionaire and is now a celebrity in his own right. His lavish lifestyle and business achievements have earned him a prominent place among the elite social circles that populate these high-end locations. 


None of that matters to me. I only work here because I need a lot of money in a short amount of time, all because my brother, Gabriel, is in trouble again. He put my name on a deal with the loan shark, and now, if he doesn’t pay it back in time, they can come after me too. 
Yes, I should be angry. I was three months ago when Gabriel confessed it all to me. I was fucking livid. But being that way now will not help me. And it certainly will not expedite paying back his debt. 
Goodbye, librarian, and hello, lingerie waitress.

I’m the first to admit the odd change of employment, but all I care about is my brother’s happiness. That and the priceless possessions my mother left me. There is no way in hell the sheriff’s department will confiscate them to pay back a debt.
“I haven’t got all day!” Kara taps her palm against the wooden door, and her gold bangle clangs from the impact.

“I’m coming!” I huff out and quickly set the perfume bottle back. I inhale deeply, which is difficult considering my waist is bound tighter than my own…
Well, you know.
I follow behind her and quickly fall into step down the long, dark corridor. 


“The guys at table six are so drunk. I bet they won’t know how many Benjamins they slip you. As your VC bestie, I’m gifting table six to you.”
I give her a knowing look.

“That’s because I gave you the billionaires from Brooklyn last week,” I counter.
Laughter rolls off her size zero frame. Unlike me, Kara would bed a guy just for another mojito. No judgment here. That’s just how she rolls.

“Oh yes, my new Louis Vuitton thanks you too.”
My laughter echoes around the corridor as light gives way to dark, and the unpredictability of inebriated men awaits us.
I strut across the club’s herringbone floor, the sound of my heels clicking being drowned out by the dark and sexy beat of the music. The club spans two levels with private areas upstairs. Anything goes up there—or so I’m told. 
Down here, where I work, there is a strict no-touch policy. But up on the second floor, different rules apply.

There, the beautiful women dance to the loud music and walk around in lingerie, submitting to the whims of their wealthy patrons, whatever they may be. It’s said that many ruthless deals were made here, even with political and underworld alliances. 
With money, one could have anonymity, and any desires these men have could be fulfilled.

Although sex is banned in the club, it isn’t uncommon. Rumors even fly around that a prominent congressman was on the receiving end of fellatio in one of the ten private suites upstairs. The story never made it to the media, but that didn’t stop his wife from filing for divorce a week later.
I stick to down here because A, I’m a virgin and like to think I’m waiting for Mr. Right, and B, at least down here, there are rules guests need to obey. 


Kara heads toward her group of tables and gestures toward table six with a jut of her chin. Seated around the velvet lounges is a group of six men, all in expensive suits and in various states of inebriation. 
I inhale a deep breath to steady my nerves, and with my shoulders straight, ramrod back, and chin tilted to the ceiling, I smile broadly as I saunter toward them.
“Well, fuck, aren’t you something.” A voice beside me draws my attention, and I look down to see eyes fixated on my breasts.
Subtle.
My smile is near breaking point, but I take in the men at the table. Gold shiny watches reflect in the dim lighting while tailored suits and expensive cologne invade my senses. Maybe this is the break I’ve been waiting for.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to the Vanilla Club,” I purr in a silky voice. 
Voices moan and whistle in appreciation as I take each of them in, one by one until I reach the head of the table.


Green eyes land on mine. Dark, like perfect emeralds, they send a tingle of heat up my spine. I roll my lips inward, and my smile brightens. 
Perhaps tonight won’t be that bad.
“Can I start you off with some scotch?” I pull my gaze from the heart-throb with the sharp jaw and perfectly coiffed dark-brown hair.


“Scotch and a blow job?” a voice asks, and the group erupts into husky laughter. The sound reverberates through the room, causing me to flinch momentarily before quickly regaining my composure. 
I shift my attention back to the piercing green eyes staring at me. He’s assessing me, and a smirk slowly curls on his lips. Irritation prickles over my skin as I try to maintain eye contact with him.
Why did I think he would be any different from the rest of them?


“Pathetic romantic.” The voices of my roommates, Ethan and Sara, ring true in my ears.
I dig my stiletto into the wooden floor and force out a smile and turn toward the crude voice. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is not that kind of establishment,” I say through gritted teeth, determined to assert my boundaries. “I’ll be with you shortly to bring your order of scotch,” I add politely, not waiting for a reply before turning on my heel and making my way toward the bar. 


Despite the patron’s inappropriate request, I maintain my professionalism and composure, not letting the encounter shake me or affect the quality of my service. But as I walk toward the bar, my pulse races from the interaction, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever else the night may bring.


Jesse leans over the bar and tosses me a wink, his smile widening as he greets me or any of the other waitresses who work here, for that matter. “This place is like a second home to you, Rosie,” he remarks.


“Sure is.” I let out a sigh.
“How’s it going, Jesse?” 


“You all right?” He polishes the marble to a diamond shine and stares past me, his gaze settling on the table I just came from.
“Admirers of yours?” he asks as his brow arches into a question.
Turning around, I find piercing dark green eyes staring back at me. Leaning against the cold brass bar, a wave of heat ripples across my skin as his gaze lingers on me.


Immediately, I turn back around to face Jesse. I’m used to guys checking me out, but this attraction is different—a strange and unsettling allure with a hint of danger that my body responded to. It’s like the pull of a dark star, irresistible and potentially destructive.


“Ah… lucky me,” I stammer nervously. “Let’s just hope they tip well.”

“What will it be?”

“Scotch, thanks.” 
 He selects the bottle of scotch, then fills the six tumblers with ice.

“Well, you certainly are looking fine tonight, Rosie.” His gaze drops to my chest, then his mouth curves into a wide, mischievous smile.


I roll my eyes. “You say that every night you see me strutting round here.”
He puts his hand to his chest and feigns a look of offense.

“Not true!”

“Such a flirt.” I tsk.
He shrugs.
“Okay, why deny it?” He carefully eases the tray toward me. “Just flaunt that delicious ass of yours, and you’ll be fine.” Jesse smirks. “They’re drunk, rich, and ready to party. It’s just a regular night at the VC.”
Nervous laughter escapes my mouth, melting into the music. He’s right. I’m sure he is right. I am just paranoid, overtired, and nervous about my final interview for my summer internship on Monday. 
I’m sure that’s all it is.


“Thanks, Jesse.” I cautiously lift the silver tray and hold it securely in the palm of my hand. The tray’s coldness seeps through my hand as my fingertips provide the right support to keep it steady. Not an easy feat in needle-thin stilettos, mind you, but three months in on the job, and I haven’t dropped a tray yet.
I breeze past the oversized ornate gold gilded cages where beautiful women dressed in the finest lingerie move seductively to the music.

When I arrive at the table, I carefully set down the tumblers full of ice and pour their drinks. One after another, they graze my hand or pretend not to see me by accidentally touching me.


Typical.


All except him. 
When I move around to him and lean across his broad shoulders, he makes no attempt to touch me accidentally.
I remove my hand from the tumbler and catch a whiff of his scent. The spice and woody oak hits the base of my nose and threatens to overtake all my senses.


His gaze travels up my arm slowly until his eyes reach mine, burning a hole through my panties. “I don’t want this.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking about the drink.


“No, sir?”
“That brand tastes like chewed-out ass.”


“And you’d know what that tastes like?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can reign them back in. I can’t help but mock the rich prick. Usually, I smile sweetly and take any requests, but something about this guy is rubbing me the wrong way.


He narrows his eyes, and a furtive glint catches my attention—an alluring heat that seems to intensify the frisson of electricity already surging between us.
Is he enjoying toying with me?


Regardless, I can’t be that cavalier. I need this job. “What is it you’d like?” I ask, quickly correcting myself and smiling sweetly.

His gaze drifts from my eyes to my lips, tracing deathly slow along the column of my neck to my breasts spilling from my bustier. Like a sultry embrace, a seductive warmth envelops my body as the heat circles its way around my thighs. It’s as if the temperature has been turned up, causing my skin to flush and my breath to quicken with every passing moment. The sensation is thrilling and unnerving, leaving me feeling vulnerable yet exhilarated at the same time.


His eyes quickly dart back to meet mine. With a stern expression, he declares, “There’s nothing you can give me.”


“Excuse me?” Heat gone, incoming hate, and an invisible hand that slaps him across the face. Damn, he is handsome, but a girl has some level of self-respect.


Ignoring my question, he continues, “Macallan. A glass of Macallan.”
He turns, ignoring me completely, and a new level of anger slides down my shoulders.

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