Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
There were no locks on the lockers. He had no choice but to stuff his belongings into one, loathing the idea of leaving the protective shirt. The material looked plain enough, nothing to indicate its worth. If someone robbed him, his biggest concern would be the naked walk back to the apartment.
Moving toward the exit, he grabbed a haphazardly folded robe from a pile, pulled it on, and tied the front closed.
Two baskets sat on a table by the door. He grabbed a fistful of condoms from one, shoving them into the pocket of the robe. The other was filled with silicon bracelets.
Cole’s intel had been right. There were four different colored bracelets. No labels, but Cole said black specified a straight orientation. White was gay, and gray was bisexual. The red ones… Well, he said not to worry about those.
Choosing a color wasn’t difficult. When Tate had unwillingly lost his virginity to a man at fourteen, it had emotionally and physically scarred him enough to never put himself in a situation like that again. And he’d succeeded.
Until Van.
With a bitter taste in his throat, he grabbed a black bracelet. Wrestled it onto his wrist. Left the locker room.
And walked into a setting unlike anything he’d ever seen.
Sex.
Everywhere he looked.
Piles of naked, writhing, sweaty bodies.
By his estimation, there were forty or fifty people with an even ratio of men to women. All naked and moaning, sucking and fucking, moving from partner to partner, and taking turns.
Group sex seemed to be the theme here—threesomes, foursomes, too-many-to-count-somes, gang bangs, daisy chains, double penetration, and the random circle jerk in the corner.
Holy.
Fuck.
Few things shocked him, and orgies were commonplace at the Velvet Den. But the similarities ended there.
A sticky smell clung to the air—a sour brew of smoke and body odor—made worse by the sweet aroma of a Febreze-type spray.
Scuffed furniture, cigarette burns, patched upholstery, dark stains—it was a germaphobe’s worst nightmare. Not that he was obsessed with cleanliness, but some of these folks had clearly thrown hygiene to the wayside. At least they were using condoms. Most of them, anyway.
The seedy club consisted of one room, vast and dimly lit, with a plethora of shadowed alcoves hidden by half walls and equipment rigged for impact play and other fetishes.
Fully aware that several heads had turned his way, he clasped his hands behind him and stepped through the room like he owned it. As his bare feet moved along the worn carpet, he tried not to think about the fluids that were transferring to his skin.
The mismatched couches and futons appeared to be surface-clean, but some of those stains should’ve been burned off. Like most clubs of this kind, the lights were kept low enough to hide stretch-marks and cellulite and just bright enough to ensure intended appendages were stuffing intended holes. Though there didn’t seem to be a right or wrong hole here.
He checked his black bracelet and realized most of the club-goers wore gray or red ones.
The general male fantasy wasn’t picky, but the majority of the men he knew preferred women.
Not the case here.
His aversion to having sex with men was deeply ingrained. Had his life taken a gentler path, maybe he wouldn’t have so much damn dread building in his gut right now. But as he caught the interested stares of numerous men around the room, he couldn’t stop a resentful scowl from thinning his lips.
One thing he hadn’t counted on was his inability to get a hard-on. He was always ready to fuck, but as it stood—or didn’t stand—he wasn’t sure he’d be able to perform.
Then he saw her.
On the far side of the room, Lucia bent over a table, eyes closed and mouth parted, as a burly naked man beat her ass with a cane.
Every muscle in Tate’s body tensed to go to her, but he forced himself to remain in place, to watch and evaluate.
The man’s erection was as impressive as his strikes. He was huge…everywhere, his swings powered by bricks of muscle. With each new stripe across her backside, she relaxed deeper onto the table. There were no creases of tension on her face. No restraints on her arms or legs. Nothing to hold her there but her own will.
She was enjoying the beating, and fuck if that didn’t make Tate’s dick swell with blood. He wasn’t a sadist, but he loved it rough, loved the feel of a woman bending and sighing beneath the aggressive force of his unchecked desire.
He could approach her now, make his move, but that wasn’t his style. When he wanted a woman’s attention, he preferred a subtle approach.
He spotted an unoccupied couch and sat at the center of it, ensuring the robe protected his butt from whatever was breeding in the crusty cushion. The location put him in her direct line of sight. She only needed to open her eyes.