Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Jasmine's POV] I'm standing in front of my mirror wearing clothes that cost more than my monthly rent, looking like someone's expensive fantasy, and the woman staring back at me is a stranger. Beautiful, polished, dangerous. Someone who could walk into a predator's den armed with nothing but intuition and desperation and walk out unscathed. If this doesn't work, I'll have to actually give Jackson what he thinks he's owed. And that's not an option. So this has to work. It has to. The day crawls by. I can't eat-every time I try, nausea rises and I'm bent over the toilet dry-heaving.

My stomach is too twisted with nerves to accept anything. I rehearse what I'll say, how I'll move, trying to think like he would expect me to think. Submissive but eager. Willing. His good girl ready to pay her debts. But I'm not giving him my body. I just need him to believe I will, right up until the moment I don't. At seven thirty, I dress in what he sent. The black silk slides over my skin like sin, hugging every curve, the neckline plunging so low I can't wear a bra. The Louboutin heels make my legs endless, change the way I walk into something sultry and deliberate.

Cartier jewelry glitters at my throat and wrists-a collar and chains disguised as luxury. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. I look like someone's mistress. Someone's prize. Someone who costs money to maintain and is worth every penny. The drive to his villa is a blur. My hands shake on the wheel, but I force them steady. Force everything steady. I'm an actress preparing for the most important performance of my life. One wrong move and I lose everything-my body, my autonomy, whatever shred of dignity I've managed to preserve through this week of degradation.

Jackson meets me at the door in a silk robe, cigar in hand, looking at me like I'm a meal he's about to devour slowly. Deliberately. With enjoyment. "Beautiful," he murmurs, and the approval in his voice makes my skin crawl. "Come in." The villa is exactly what I expected-expensive, tasteless, designed to intimidate. He leads me to a dining room where candles flicker and wine waits and expensive food I can't possibly stomach sits on fine china. A romantic setup. Like this is a date instead of extortion. Throughout dinner, I force myself to eat small bites. Sip wine I don't taste.

Smile when expected. He talks about his successes with the company, praises himself, makes it abundantly clear he expects payment for services rendered. "The boys agreed," he says casually, cutting into steak. "To this arrangement. They know you're here." The words land wrong, making something fierce rise in my chest. "I made this decision. They didn't agree to anything. I did." Jackson smiles, pleased by my fire. "Good girl." After dinner, he puts on music-something slow, seductive, designed to set a mood.

The air is thick with expectation, with the weight of what he thinks is about to happen. This is it. The moment I've been dreading and preparing for simultaneously. I take a breath. Center myself and make my move. I stand, extend my hand. "Show me your bedroom." His eyebrows raise, delighted. "Eager?" "Motivated," I correct, voice steady despite the panic screaming in my head. The bedroom is obscene-massive bed, mirrors, low lighting designed for seduction. Music follows us, filling the space with false intimacy. Jackson turns to me, reaching for my dress, and I move faster.

Push him onto the bed before he can take control. He laughs, genuinely amused, aroused by the unexpected aggression. "I like this side of you." I stand before him and begin to move-not quite dancing, not quite stripping, something in between. Sensual. Hypnotic. Keeping him engaged but off-balance, giving him visuals without giving him access. My hips sway to the music. My hands trail over my own body, tracing curves he wants to touch but can't. I step closer, throw one leg in these ridiculous heels over his groin, heel pressing close enough to be dangerous.

Look down at him with every ounce of command I can summon. "Take it out." Jackson's laugh is dark, amused. "You're full of surprises." "I said take it out," I repeat, voice harder, channeling every dominant woman I've ever seen in movies. Or I'll hurt you with the heel of my Louboutins." I pressed the heel lightly against his inner thigh. His hands move immediately, pushing down his underwear, freeing his dick. He's hard, aroused by this unexpected dominance, by the power play he wasn't expecting.

"Now what?" "Now you watch," I say, stepping back to give myself space, to maintain the distance I need to survive this. "And you don't touch me. You touch yourself." "That's not-" "Those are my terms," I interrupt. "You wanted me here. You wanted celebration. This is what you get. Take it or not." He stares at me, weighing options. Then his hand wraps around himself. "Show me something worth watching." So I give him a show. Dance in ways that reveal a thigh and transparent panty, the curve of a breast and nipple, nothing he can actually touch.

Run my hands over my body, moaning softly, performing desire I don't feel. His breathing gets heavier, hand moving faster, and I watch him work himself while maintaining the careful distance between us. "No," I say sharply when his other hand reaches toward me. "I didn't give you permission." He pauses, then smiles wider. "What do you want me to do?" "Touch yourself," I order. "Show me." Jackson, mesmerized by this unexpected power dynamic, obeys.

His hand moves up and down while I continue the performance, moaning louder now, touching myself through the dress and underwear in ways that suggest more than they reveal. Calculated. Strategic. Watching him get closer to the edge. I moan louder, arch my back, play the fantasy he wants to see. And within seconds, he comes with a groan, spilling onto his stomach, collapsing back onto the bed with breathless laughter. "That was incredible," he gasps. I approach slowly, lean down to whisper in his ear with all the venom I've been swallowing all week.

"Good boy." Then I walk out, leaving him in a puddle of his own satisfaction, never having touched me once. Never having claimed what he thought he'd bought. The drive home is surreal. My hands shake on the wheel, but underneath the adrenaline is triumph-I did it. I manipulated him, gave him release without giving myself. I survived. I won. I'm still riding that high when I open my apartment door and find all three brothers waiting. They take in my appearance-the dress, the jewelry, my mussed hair-and something in the room detonates. Liam's face goes pale.

Asher's expression turns to cold fury. Finn looks devastated, broken in ways I've never seen. "Tell us nothing happened," Liam says, voice breaking on every word. "Tell us he didn't touch you." And I realize they don't know. Don't know what I did, how I survived. They just see evidence of what they think happened, and it's destroying them in real time. Fuck. Virgin Dot Com