Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Who is he fucking?”
She shrugged, gawping. “It’s really none of my business...”
I let out a laugh. “He’s got you trained well.”
“I just… I don’t know... sorry...”
“You don’t see him with anyone? In here?”
“Mr Morgan, in here?” It was her turn to laugh. “No. Mr Morgan never comes in here, not when the club’s open.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Well, that’s a fucking turn up.” I downed my drink. “No wonder he’s so fucking miserable.”
I handed over my glass for a refill.
The place was about to get a whole new kind of management. I had it all planned out, ready to roll. Andy would soon see what three years had done for me. Venice had made me, sculpted me into a different animal altogether. The bitch was back with new tricks, and ready to share. A tiny part of me had hoped I’d be sharing with him. Not fucking likely from the looks of it.
The show would still go on.
“I’m going to be putting on some entertainment tonight.”
Topaz looked wary. So bloody wary. “Entertainment?”
“Yes, a show. That’s what we do here, right? We’re a sex club. I want to put on a show.”
Her eyebrows were heavy. “Mr Morgan was quite clear that he wants a flogging bench on the main dancefloor this evening.”
“Mr Morgan only owns fifty-percent of this fucking club, whether he likes it or not.” I smiled, but it was frosty. “We could be friends, Topaz. Don’t make an enemy out of me, I’ll be here a long time.”
She sighed and shrugged, shaking her head like the world had turned insane. “Sure, whatever you say, Miss Devere. Just tell me what you need.”
I told her exactly what I’d need.
***
Andy
Explicit was heaving by eleven. I tried to keep my head down, oblivious, but the itch for control was too bastard strong. I crept along the corridor by the playrooms, pressing myself into the shadow of the wall to avoid a collision with anyone on duty. The rest of my route was clear. I slipped into the heart of Explicit without fanfare. The main floor was busy enough to skirt the edge undetected. Faye was easy to spot in the crowd, her head was tipped back as she laughed amongst the regulars, her eyes sparkling. Drunk.
Every BDSM club has a superstar dom. Ours is known as Masque, a huge hulk of ripped man-flesh with a big black dragon inked across his chest. He’s like an ancient gladiator throwback, his face a play of shadow behind the mask that gives him his name. I like Masque, for all the theatrics and pomp he’s a sharp guy with a decent brain in his skull. That isn’t what makes him popular in this place, of course. That’s all down to how he looks and how he fucks —rough, brutal, raw. He leaned in to whisper something in Faye’s ear, and she cocked her head, her hand on his arm, fingers squeezing muscle. My jaw gritted, frivolous bitch. I looked to Masque’s fiancée, Cat, but she didn’t seem bothered, she was dancing with Mistress Raven — another club regular — flicking her hair all about the place without a care in the world. Nobody seemed to care, in fact.
That wasn’t quite true.
One of our hostesses, Demelza, drifted close enough that I could tap her shoulder. I pulled her close before she could speak, a firm finger across her pretty mouth. She squirmed in my grip until she registered it was me, and the contact felt strangely electric. Too long without sweet, wet pussy.
“There’s a problem downstairs, Miss Devere needs to sort it out.”
“There is? What kind of a problem?”
“Whatever problem you want. Just get her off the main floor. She’s making a spectacle of the whole fucking place.”
She looked over to find Faye tracing Masque’s tattoo with a finger. “I’ll try my best.”
“Don’t tell her I’m here. Tell nobody I’m out of my office.”
She nodded. “Whatever you say, Sir.”
Sir. It had been a while.
I watched with delight as Demelza made her way across to Faye, but my mood was quashed in a beat as the drunk cow made no effort to deal with the crisis. She waved Demelza away with a sweep of an arm, and kept on chatting. My hostess returned, head downcast.
“Sorry, Sir. She said she would handle it later. After the scene.”
“What scene?”
Faye answered the question for me. As per usual Explicit practice, the lighting changed to signal action on stage, and the crowd hustled into position. My pulse quickened as my business partner shimmied her way through the throng, but Masque didn’t follow her lead. He sought out his fiancée instead, wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulders and guiding her along with the rest of the onlookers. My eyes scanned bodies for movement. It was a thickset guy with a shocking blue Mohican that stepped up after Faye. The one they call Sergeant. Sergeant Sin to give his moniker its full cringe-worthy glory. His muscled neck was dark with ink, military-style art that made him look as though he snapped necks for breakfast. He smiled as Faye took her position, running heavy hands up the toned flesh of her thighs. My mouth turned dry.