The invitation came in the form of a single-line email.
Wear something tight. No panties. 8 PM sharp. Penthouse address below.
There was no signature. No “Mr. Grayson.” Just coordinates and control. And Sasha knew exactly what she was walking into.
She should’ve been scared.
Instead, she stood in front of her mirror in a black bodycon dress that clung to every curve. Thin straps, a plunging neckline, and a hem that barely covered her ass. Her n*****s were hard beneath the fabric, and the cool air between her thighs was a constant reminder that she was completely bare underneath.
No bra. No panties. Just like he’d told her.
Her Uber dropped her off at a sleek glass building with valet out front. The man at the door simply nodded and led her to a private elevator, no questions asked.
