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“Fuck that. He signed his own death warrant when he threatened to hurt Scarlett.”
He stares at me for a long minute, then says, “Some info’s on the desk. Just a who’s who of those who want to see you and pay homage to the newest superpower, JM.”
“Fuck you, too. And thanks.”
When he leaves, I change into a suit befitting the king of the fucking club, and then I head out to visit the lower floors.
Bars are starting to close across the city as it nears four a.m., but this club doesn’t close until seven. It’s the ultimate after-party destination for the BDSM crowd, and a few people expect to see me here.
I get a drink and sit down to watch a couple in play. The woman casting ropes is good, hot as fucking hell, and her sub is black-haired and sweet-looking.
My dick gets hard watching them.
Not because of the act, although it’s right up my alley, the Shibari rope play. No, it’s the black-haired beauty who has the effect on me.
And if I’m being honest, it’s who she reminds me of. Because instead of the sub, I can fucking see Scarlett hanging there, suspended, bound, and open to me and whatever I want to do to her.
A gorgeous girl, one of the ones into pain and bondage and all the good things—I know, I’ve seen her play in here before—comes over to me as I start a boring conversation with a patron. He’s rich, like most of them in here, but he’s not important aside from a prop for me to sell my role.
I pull the girl onto my lap.
She wants more, but she’ll also sit here, thinking she’s winning favor with me.
Normally, she would be.
Normally, I’d drag her off and tie her up, whip her and fuck her holes. But all I can think about are cupcakes with messy, colored swirls.
When my conversation with the rich fuck ends, I send her on her way and head home as the early gray of an overcast dawn hovers over.
I shower and pull on a pair of jeans, ready to work. But my feet don’t carry me to my office. They lead me to the master bedroom.
Scarlett’s asleep. She looks so fucking pretty and sweet and delicious that I walk toward her and dip my head so my lips are against her ear. She stirs and lets out a soft moan.
My cock twitches.
“Wake up,” I whisper. “Time to play.”
EIGHTEEN
scarlett
“I was thinking maybe we could go to the club tonight.”
Malone slips a finger along my cheek. It’s an innocent-seeming touch, but at the same time, it’s not. A world of perverted fun, a world of depraved sex, of pleasure and pain lives in that touch, layered and ready to unravel and wind down around me.
My breath picks up.
Because I want it.
A minute ago, I was in a vivid dream world that shifted and morphed into hyperreality, the moments between wakefulness and semiconsciousness. Then came his touch, the simple stroke of his finger, holding such surreal pleasure.
But he shatters it when the buttery, sugary rose scent of my ginger-rose cupcakes wafts under my nose. The ginger is light and enhances the rose wrapped into the vanilla of the cake. And I know that scent so well it snaps me right back into the real world.
I slowly raise my eyes to him.
Green eyes, vivid and watchful, look down at me. He’s so close I can see the darker green and almost black striations in them.
And his wide, full mouth is a little softer than usual. But the hard center remains. Like a shell around his soul.
