saint, until you ask
synopsis: Behind the mask she wears at an exclusive underground club, she is untouchable—a dancer for the city’s wealthiest men who can buy her time, but never her face. Her rules are simple until he arrives: rich, patient, and far too observant, with eyes that never leave her and an obsession he makes no effort to hide. He doesn’t want a night with her—he wants to know her, to unravel her, to be the one she chooses. As curiosity turns into dangerous attraction, she finds herself drawn into his world of luxury, control, and quiet obsession, where every kindness feels like a warning and every touch feels like surrender. Somewhere between desire and danger, she must decide if he is the safest place she’s ever known—or the most beautiful mistake she’ll ever make. if you'd prefer to hear it narrated, follow this link MDNI 18+ | Smut to come
Session One: The Mask
She wasn’t allowed to remove her mask.
Not here. Not at events like these.
High rollers didn’t want faces. They wanted illusions—something beautiful, distant, and easy to forget before they went home to their wives.
And she preferred it that way.
It wasn’t her first gig. It wouldn’t be her last.
She wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight.
But her friend called that morning—mono, desperate—and she said yes before she could think too hard about it.
Now she stood backstage, adjusting lace that wasn’t meant to stay in place, listening to the muffled pulse of money and music on the other side of the wall.
The night was young.
Which meant it would be long.
He shouldn’t have come.
He knew that the second he stepped inside.
Too loud. Too crowded. Too predictable.
His friends were already halfway drunk, laughing too hard at things that didn’t matter, clapping him on the shoulder like they could drag him into their kind of boredom.
“Relax,” one of them said. “You’ll like this one.”
He doubted it.
He always did.
Until the door opened.
Black lace.
Dark hair.
A mask.
And eyes that didn’t belong in a place like this.
She bowed slightly to the men who would pay her night’s salary and she excused herself quickly to her tiny stage. The robe fell down her shoulders, slipping past her back and hips, and flowing seductively to the floor. It was forgotten for the time.
The pole waited for her patiently, warming up in the places she grabbed it. Wrapped around it. Twirled, spun, slid.
It was not sexual to anyone who wasn’t filled with lust like his idiot friends were. It was an art.
And he couldn’t look away.
His friends were too busy howling at her to notice that–for once–he actually paid attention to the dancer. The rare times he would actually attend these events, he ignored the girls and drank a single dram of whiskey neat before he called it a night.
She was on the floor of the small stage now, rolling her hips, tilting her head back into a welcoming pose. And as if he’d been summoned to that exact spot, he approached.
And his friends went silent.
He had a stack of something in his left hand that she came to realize was money. And she sat up straight, eyes wide. Her dance came to a halt as she watched him, curious. What did he want? Why did he approach her?
It felt like a Twilight Zone moment for her.
He stepped closer when she didn’t move. He moved a hand toward her, graceful, unassuming, and he held onto her shoulder before leaning in. His mouth met her ear so she could hear him over the loud music. He smelled so good it almost made her knees weak and she was glad the she’d been on the floor already.
“Take it off.”
That’s what the money was for.
She pulled back quickly, almost recoiling from him. Was it fear? Shock? She wasn’t sure. No one ever asked that unless their plan was to take the girl home. That very night.
She had never been asked, never been requested. She made sure her art was only seen by high-paying gentlemen. But none offered to take her home. She crafted her routines well to avoid moments like these.
He waited.
Not impatient.
Just certain.
Her eyes bore into his, shock still fresh in those pretty, brown eyes.
Finally, her answer came. But it was not what he initially expected.
Impulse kills quicker than curiosity.
She never let them see her face.
That was where she ended and they began.
And the shake of her head felt like a knife in the gut. ‘Fuck.’
He tried once more, making sure she felt his voice in it this time.
“I need to see you.”
She forced down the shiver in her spine from the depth of his voice, the proximity of his mouth against her ear.
She knew what this would become. But if she said yes first, what would happen?
He might not be interested anymore and leave everything where it was.
Why did this scare her more than being touched?
She held onto herself, stilled in hopes he would give up.
And when she didn’t move, he placed the stack of cash on the stage for her.
He said he’d be back.
And he kept his word.
Anxious wasn’t quite the feeling. Something more would have been accurate.
But she was not quite fearful either.
She had seen him twice since that night.
He didn’t request her, didn’t go into a private room. He was always front row for her, and only her. He left her with more money than she’d received from any highroller or regular.
He whispered something to her the second night he returned that she would not soon forget before he disappeared into the sea of men.
Her routines had begun to change, more raw, loose, sexier.
It wasn’t for him.
Practice was the only thing that took her mind off of him, his offer, his persistence.
It was all she could do not to fold.
He was gorgeous. And he was rich.
And he didn’t smell like the old, touchy men from upstate.
She ignored him. She had no intention of giving herself over for a night even if the money was worth it.
She still hoped for true love, romance, and lustless desire.
But then he requested her a few months later.
He’d watched her from backgrounds, front rows, upstairs. All the possible angles.
She followed him everywhere—into meetings, into silence, into sleep.
His shower was only for thoughts of her. His pillow stored the memory of her scent, the dreams of her, and the sweet sigh he caught from the night he asked her to take off her mask.
Before she shot him down. Even though it was kind–fearful even–it hurt his pride and ego more than anything.
He was still there. Still asking with his eyes, still placing her features, or their potential.
But he knew her beauty was unlike any other.
She stood before him, bowed once with little respect and proceeded to her stage. The same room as before. But this time…it was just him.
He watched her dance, watched her slowly twirl and crawl her way toward him as he’d requested. A lap dance. Only for proximity.
He never meant to demean her.
He just wanted to be closer after months of distance. He wanted her to perform only for him.
And the club owner probably wouldn’t mind if he paid extra just for her to be exclusive for only him.
But she might not like that so much. And he wanted to be respectful of her wishes.
Her ass slid against his legs, all the way up to his hips and back down. She did it again, ran a hand up his thigh before she turned back to face him, popping either cheek against his groin and she gasped loudly when one of his hands gripped her hip. It stilled her right on top of his hardness.
She didn’t turn away from him for a long moment. Her eyes were blown wide when his eyes finally met hers.
He didn’t speak for a long moment.
They just stared at each other while she was coming undone above him from shock, and he sat cozily and comfily underneath her but worried she might run away.
She didn’t.
That was good.
His jaw flexed, and so did something else.
She didn’t have the courage to look away. She needed to watch him, make sure he didn’t pull out any other tricky stops. But she couldn’t look away from those damned eyes, that fucking face. And his hand tightened against her hip.
“I want to take you home tonight.”
Her heart sank a little bit and he felt it.
“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
She pressed her lips together tightly behind the mask, her eyes began to lose that fear and slowly coiled into something fierce. She would fight if she had to.
She didn’t care how kind he was in the club–his home was a different situation. A place unknown to her. Dangerous.
“Don’t worry. I won’t cause you any harm. You’ll be perfectly safe. I’ve already paid for your service for the night, even if you choose not to do anything. And I don’t expect anything from you.”
His lips were moving but all she heard was sirens.
And then, “I want to give you some privacy. And I’m prepared to pay you generously for just that.”
She looked down at his hand, the free one. It rested gently against his thigh, very close to her body. And she looked back up at him slowly. His eyes had darkened at that moment and her lips were suddenly dry.
His fingers twitched against her skin, the lace.
“Don’t look at me like that, Saint, I’m trying to behave.”
‘Was that his idea of a nickname,’ she wondered?
She blinked and turned away from him slightly, but a hand brought her face back toward him.
“Don’t look away from me. I want your eyes on me only, right now.”
‘What was with this push and pull bullshit? Don’t look at him, do look at him, what the hell did he want?’
“I just want to see your face. Will you accept?”
And a part of her wondered why she did. The ride back to his penthouse was silent, and the anxiety ate her up during the ride.
When he parked and turned off the car, she reached for the handle almost immediately. Before her fingers could pull, his hand wrapped lightly around her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
She blinked. “Getting out?”
A small smile touched his mouth, amused, like she’d said something ridiculous.
“No, Saint.”
The nickname landed warm and dangerous all at once.
“I open the door for you.”
“It’s quicker if I open it myself,” she said, already half turned toward him.
His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was enough.
Enough to make her look at him.
Enough to make her stay.
For a second, he just watched her—calm, unreadable, like he was deciding how honest to be.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Quicker isn’t the point, Saint.”
Her breath caught.
The nickname again. Low this time. Intentional.
He leaned back slightly, still holding her wrist like it belonged there.
“If I let you rush away from me every time, I’d never see you again.”
She tried for sarcasm, for distance.
“Maybe that’s the idea.”
His smile deepened, slow and dangerous.
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Silence.
Thick. Warm. Terrible.
Then finally, he let her go.
“Stay.”
Just one word.
Not a command.
Worse—because it sounded like certainty.
He stepped out, shut the driver’s door, and walked around the front of the car like the conversation had already been decided.
She sat there staring at the windshield, annoyed at him.
More annoyed at herself.
Because she stayed.
And when he opened her door and offered his hand, she took it anyway.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured.
And that—that almost made her turn around and get right back in the car.
But, like him, she persisted and followed his movement forward.
His garage was separate from everyone else’s. It led right to his entrance. And you needed specified access to even get onto his level of the building.
Shortly, she was in his living room, which looked more like a grand ballroom with sofas and side tables.
He dropped his keys on the nearest side table along with his phone and wallet.
He gestured to the sofa, "Make yourself comfortable.”
He settled on the sofa across from the one he directed her to. He offered a drink on the way in, but she declined.
She didn’t sit.
Most girls would have taken the invitation immediately–sank into the softness, reached for comfort, tried to belong in a space that was never meant for them.
She stayed standing.
Guarded.
Eyes moving–taking in exits, distance, him.
Good.
He leaned back into the sofa like none of it mattered, one arm stretched along the back, posture loose in a way that was entirely deliberate.
“Relax, Saint,” he coaxed, voice smooth. “You look like you’re planning your escape.”
“I always am,” she quipped.
No hesitation.
That almost made him smile.
Almost.
“Then you won’t mind staying a little longer,” he hummed.
Her eyes narrowed slightly at that–measuring, recalculating.
Still standing.
Still not playing into him.
He let the silence stretch.
Not awkward.
Not heavy.
Just… there.
“You can keep the mask on.”
A flicker. Small, but real.
“I didn’t bring you here to take anything from you,” he continued. “If anything, I’ve done the opposite.”
Her gaze dropped–just for a second–to the table, like she could still see the weight of everything he’d given her over the past months.
Then back to him.
“You paid for my time,” she said carefully. “That’s all.”
“That’s never all,” he chuckled.
Soft.
Certain.
Not arguing–just correcting.
Silence again. Longer this time.
He didn’t move toward her.
Didn’t reach.
Didn’t close the distance.
And somehow…that made it worse.
Because now it was hers to cross.
Her fingers lifted–barely–toward the edge of the mask.
Then stopped.
Dropped.
“No,” she whispered, more to herself than him.
His eyes tracked the movement, sharp but unreadable.
“Tell me why,” he suggested.
Not a demand.
A question.
That made it more dangerous. Her jaw tightened behind the lace.
“You don’t need a reason.”
“I don’t,” he agreed easily. “But you do.”
That landed.
She hated that it did. Her arms crossed loosely over herself–not defensive, not quite–but holding something in place.
“If they see your face,” she started, slowly, “they think they know you.”
His expression didn’t change–but something in his gaze sharpened.
“And once they think they know you, they think they own you,” she continued, voice quieter now, “they stop asking. Stop wondering.”
She looked at him then.
Direct.
Unflinching.
“They decide what you are–who you are.”
A beat.
“And I don’t belong to anyone like that.”
Silence.
Not empty.
Full.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, attention completely, dangerously focused.
“And you think I would?” he questioned.
She didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
Something in his jaw shifted–just once–like he was adjusting to a challenge he hadn’t expected to respect this much.
Then–
“I don’t want to decide what or who you are,” he offered.
Honest.
Too honest.
“I want to see what you choose to be.”
That…was new.
Her breath caught–just slightly.
He saw it. Of course he did.
He always did.
“I paid for your time,” he continued, softer now. “Not your compliance.”
He leaned back again, settling into the sofa.
She took a step back.
Another removal of pressure. And somehow–
That was the thing that broke her.
Because now–
If she did it–
It would be hers.
Not his.
Her fingers rose again.
Slower this time.
No hesitation–just…weight.
The room felt too quiet, too still.
Even the city outside seemed to pause with her.
His gaze didn’t leave her. Not once.
Not blinking.
Not pushing.
Just there.
Waiting.
Her fingers hooked beneath the edge of the mask.
A breath.
Another.
Then–
She pulled.
Slowly.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
Just enough.
The lace lifted.
Revealing–
First her mouth.
Soft. Tense. Uncertain.
Then her nose.
The curve of her cheek.
And finally–
Her eyes met his fully, nothing between them now.
No barrier.
No illusion.
Just her.
The mask slipped from her hand and fell somewhere behind her, forgotten.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
Not controlled.
Not intentional.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
And that–
That was the moment she realized…
He hadn’t been prepared for this either.
His composure didn’t break. But it shifted.
Subtle. Barely there. Like something inside him had just locked into place.
“Saint,” he said quietly.
Not teasing. Not amused.
Something else.
Something deeper.
And then–almost to himself–
“...fuck.”
Her breath hitched.
Not because of the word.
Because of the way he said it like he’d just lost something.
Or found it.
And wasn’t sure which was worse.
He leaned back slowly, dragging a hand across his mouth like he needed a second to recalibrate.
“You should sit,” he whispered.
Not commanding.
Not soft. Careful.
Like she’d just become something fragile. Or dangerous. Or both.
She didn’t move right away. Because now she understood something she hadn’t before.
This wasn’t about a face.
This wasn’t about curiosity.
This… was about recognition. And whatever he saw–
It mattered.
Too much.
Her mask had been retrieved. She still did not sit.
He didn’t offer again. Just watched her from his spot on the sofa, one hand covered his mouth slightly.
He didn’t stare, didn’t devour. Just… watched.
Like he was learning her.
That was worse.
Her face still felt exposed, like the absence of the mask was something physical, something missing. Her fingers twitched once against the mask before she stilled them.
“You got your money’s worth,” she rubbed a finger against her nose swiftly.
He scoffed, low. “I got a lot more than that, Saint.”
The nickname was annoying, but she still hadn’t commented on it.
“I need to rest. I have a long day tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll drive you home. But this conversation isn’t over.”
“It never started.”
She turned away from him before he could stand and walked the extended distance to the elevator. It required a keycard to use it, and when she realized it, she stopped and stared at the door.
So much for planning an escape.
Not that she felt the need to. He made good on his promise.
It was just a fail-safe, a contingency plan.
In case he lied.
“You need a hand?”
He stood just a few feet away from her, keycard in hand, twirling.
She didn’t turn around, afraid the embarrassment would be easily read. “Please open the door.”
He sighed, amused, “You learn fast.”
She nodded once, still facing the elevator door.
He stepped closer, enough that she could feel him at her back. He didn’t speak immediately, he was waiting. Like he was watching for a sign that she wanted to stay longer, change her mind and have that conversation in that instant and not later.
Wishful thinking. He had a lot to catch up on.
Her hair looked soft. “May I touch your hair?”
Something shifted in her chest, but she shoved it down. Most of the highrollers or other rich men that strolled proudly through the club never asked. They just yanked and pulled and stroked and never asked. They just assumed they could take what they wanted without consent because they have all the money and the girls are just there for show.
“Okay…”
She flinched slightly, almost unnoticeable when his hand met her head, stroking from the root to the ends. He seemed satisfied, but then both hands pressed against her head, and she wondered what he was doing until it felt good.
He was massaging her scalp.
She was confused, surprised, worried all at once.
But it felt so good she didn’t pull away, or ask him to stop. She just…let him do it.
“That’s it…relax into it.”
She hadn’t realized that she had leaned against him, allowing him to hold her up while he stroked her hair and scalp, her eyes half-lidded from the sensation.
She sighed, short, quick and then shivered and pulled away.
“Uhm…”
“I know.”
He smoothed her as best as he could, though he did prefer it a mess already. She stayed in her spot, unmoving, allowing.
“I don’t agree with men taking advantage of women. I’ll let you go.”
He stroked her arm, her back still pressing into his chest where he held her still with his other hand on her hip. “I’m persistent. I’ll keep trying until you’re finally begging for me.”
Her breath slowed, uneven, slightly ragged.
She’d never heard that before. She had never felt it before. This desire, unbridled, unburdened, unhinged. And the way he touched her with the softness of a thousand flower petals…she sighed internally.
A relief flooded her body, her nervous system felt safer almost instantly.
He pulled the keycard out of his blazer pocket and put it in her hand. Slid against her wrist, his hand traveled up her arm once more. “You can hold onto that. Something tells me you’ll need it later.”
The warmth of his body disappeared. He took a few steps back and watched her fight with herself mentally before a part of her he knew would win forced her feet forward and she scanned it, the card that allowed her access to run home.
“I don’t trust this city at the best of times. But I want you to let my chauffeur drive you home, since you prefer to go along without me. I’ll allow it this time.”
She scoffed, but said nothing. She didn’t know what to say to that. But it was kind enough. A little controlling.
He could have let her walk home.
He could have done a lot of things.
But he didn’t. He saw her face, paid her, and let her go home on her own instead of keeping her around company she still hadn’t made a decision about.
He watched her intently as she stepped onto the elevator, the doors closed behind her and she looked up at the last second, eyes meeting his. She’d never forget that look.
And home came sooner than she realized.
She knew he would be persistent. He made that abundantly clear. But she wondered if she could avoid him. If she should avoid him.
She needed the money. But she wasn’t willing to sell herself for it.
Not anymore. Not like this.
If she gave in, it would be on her terms.
She barely removed her makeup, her clothes.
Her shoes were kicked off at the door. Forgotten already.
Her bed welcomed her like a cloud’s hug. And she drifted off to sleep.
Somewhere nearby–unseen, unheard–a small device blinked once.
Then again.
Active.
