Page 35 of The Killer Card

She’s turned on, but she doesn’t want me to know. I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. She’s so stubborn she’d rather suffer than ask me for help. Fortunately for her, I’m not stubborn, and I’m so desperate for this woman that I would quite literally sell what remains of my soul to the fucking devil just to touch her.

Casually, I pull off my jacket, draping it over the arm of our couch. Then I roll up my sleeves, subtly sliding my wristband into my pocket.

Turning my body towards her, I let my eyes linger on the show- watching the young man on stage sink to his knees between the woman’s legs- and whisper in Naomi’s ear, “Please, mi reina, let me take care of you. Por favor.”

The desperation in my voice is honestly pathetic, but I can’t take whatever this is anymore. My insides feel like they’re being melted by acid every second I’m near her.

She turns only enough to whisper, the wine on her breath floral and intoxicating, “I don’t believe you’ve begged nearly enough, pretty boy.”

I really have. I’ve used every word in the English language. Every word in Spanish despite her being unable to understand. I’ve pleaded with her every night I’ve seen her at El Rincón. I’ve supplicated to her every night I’ve run into her in The Cellar. Just for a touch if not a kiss or a taste. Just permission to touch her would satisfy a fraction of the ache in my chest. She just likes to watch me suffer and, unfortunately, I like suffering for her.

Which is why I nearly faint when she turns her head enough to brush a command against my cheek, “Show me again how sweetly you can beg.” I open my mouth to do just that when she adds, “On your knees.”

Fuck yes. Holy shit, I nearly come in my pants when she says those words. I reach for my glass, downing the rest of its contents in one swallow. Then I’m sinking onto my knees in front of her. I’ll need to have these pants dry cleaned, and my knees are going to fucking hurt tomorrow, but I couldn’t give more of a fuck as I rest my hands on my thighs in supplication to the woman who has consumed my every waking moment for weeks. Months. I dream about her, night and day. I’ve imagined this view, of her icy blue eyes boring into mine as I submit to her as much as the setting allows.

She takes note of my posture instantly, I can see it in the slight narrowing of her eyes. She’s young, much newer to this game than I am, but she’s a quick learner and she recognizes my experience with… Well, not shock exactly. But there is something dark glittering in her glacier eyes that makes me want to squirm.

I don’t though. I’m perfectly still in front of her, a statue bathed in writhing shadows.

“How many?” She asks cooly, bringing her drink to her lips. She’s asking how many people before her that I’ve kneeled for. How many have I submitted to?

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly and her brow arches. “This isn’t my first club.”

She hums, low in her throat, raising her chin. When she uncrosses her legs, I instinctively lean in, dying to bury my face between their elegance. The toe of her heel forcefully meets my shoulder, halting my advance. My heart hammers in my chest so hard it drowns out the music in my ears. I watch her raise the wine to her lips again, taking a slow sip.

“Do you have a preference?” She asks, and my brow furrows. “Men? Women?”

“No,” I swallow. “I have no preference.”

Naomi tilts her head, considering this. “Do you always sub?”

Behind me the woman on stage lets out a long, gasping moan. “No,” I answer only loud enough for her to hear. It’s like a bubble has consumed us, only her and I exist in this room, the dozens of other sweaty bodies an illusion. “But it’s what I’m best at.”

My gaze drops to her parted legs as her stiletto drops from my shoulder. “And I would very much like to show you, si me lo permites?”

Please let me.

Another long drink of wine and she nods. “Show me what that enchanting tongue can do, pretty boy.”

“Gracias a Dios, la Virgen y San José bendito.”

I resist the urge to cross myself, choosing to run my hands up her calves instead. A shiver goes down my spine at the first contact of my fingers against her velvet soft skin. This might be the most religious experience I’ve ever had, here on my knees just skimming my hands behind her knees. Meeting her gaze, I pry her legs apart firmly so my shoulders can fit between. When my hands slide along her thighs, shoving up her skirt, she averts her attention back to the stage.

No, no, no. Look at me, please.

Fuck, I’m pathetic, and she knows it too. It’s why she refuses to look at me when she says, “You have until she finishes to finish me.” Because then the show is over, and she’s going to leave and this will be the only chance she ever gives me to prove if I’m worth her time.

The way she says it is like she very much expects for me to fail. As if this won’t be the first time she’ll walk away disappointed.

“I will make you come,” I tell her. “If that’s what you want from me, I will make it happen.”

The corner of her lips tilts. “We’ll see.”

Oh, it is so on.

This won’t be the first time I’ve made a woman come in public. There are a few other club members in the same position as me, between the knees of their partners, many of whom- by the sounds of their sharp breaths and deep moans- will finish well before the show is over. On the stage I can hear the whimpers of the woman being edged within an inch of her life. If Naomi ever allows me to do such a thing to her I will take immense pleasure in denying hers. However, tonight is not about denial, it’s about assurance. It’s about proving to her that I’m worth taking out her frustrations on. That I’m worthy of whatever carnal acts she needs to feel like the powerful queen I know she is.

I don’t bare her to the room, but I push her skirt just high enough to find her pussy bare and glistening. “Coño de la madre,” I growl under my breath, rocking my hips into nothing. My dick is painfully hard, dripping obscenely enough that I’m damn sure my trousers are already stained with it.