by Naima Simone
Crossing his arms, he stared at her, struggling not to loose the bark of laughter tickling his throat. Jesus, she was so goddamn cute. When had he thought that about a woman he wanted? Sexy, hot, double-jointed. Never cute. And not one had ever made him want to laugh. Ever. That realization sobered him up.
Corrine had come to him for the same thing other women did—to screw. To get off. But she wasn’t like the others, and he had to keep that in mind. She represented everything he’d promised his mother he’d quit and what he and his best friends had shed blood to escape. If he wasn’t careful, he could so easily find himself tangled in her world of crime, easy money, and brutality. A world that called to him more often than he cared to admit.
Which made him taking her to The Loft even more insane. But, damn, he wanted her. Hungered to know if her sex was as delicious as the flavor of her kiss. Was greedy to discover how those sweet, mind-stealing clenches and spasms that had squeezed the hell out of his fingers would feel around his cock.
“You okay?” he asked her. Though impatience rode him, he needed to know she was all in. “Changing your mind?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head for added emphasis. “No, I want this. I’m just a little…” She shrugged a shoulder.
“Nervous,” he finished for her. When she nodded, he moved forward, ready to let the private entrance door shut behind him and walk away from this plan. “At any time, you can end this, Corrine. You understand? Any time.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to. I want you,” she breathed.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said those three words—I want you—but each time she uttered them might as well have been. His reaction—lust tearing his gut to ribbons—was the same.
“So you said,” he murmured. “We’ll see.” Because he wasn’t a nice or easy lover. He fucked just like he lived: hard. Turning, he held the door open for her to pass through. “And you’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry?” she asked, the quiet click of the door closing echoing.
She scanned the large vestibule, and he did as well, seeing it through her eyes. Dark-blue panels lined the walls, a black chaise longue occupied a corner, and one of Rion’s photographs—this one a black-and-white image of the Old North Church—hung on the opposite wall.
“You’re wrong,” Sasha repeated, pausing in front of a large iron staircase. “The door is more X-Men than Scooby-Doo. A pad to read a handprint? More Professor X than Ghost of Mr. Hyde.”
Her head jerked, and she stared at him. Blinked. Then stared some more. Shit. He shouldn’t have opened his mouth.
“I learned English watching American cartoons,” he muttered.
Heat over his admission rushed up his neck and poured into his face. Embarrassment. Another emotion he didn’t experience with a woman.
Yeah, he knew cartoons. Probably with a knowledge that would be disturbing to some people. But like he’d admitted to her for some reason only God knew, while most Americans learned English from the cradle, he’d had weekday afternoons and Saturday mornings of watching Scooby, G.I. Joe, and the Marvel and DC animated series to educate him. He’d had good teachers; some had been amazing. But with classes of thirty or more kids to keep under control, teaching the Russian kid who possessed only a smattering of their language hadn’t been a priority for them.
Stick to the sex, he grimly reminded himself. Stick to the damn sex. No more talking…
“I get that,” she said, nodding. “My grandfather learned English from watching The Lone Ranger and The Three Stooges. But I think you might have actually made a joke.” She widened her eyes. “I probably need to keep an eye out for gravity-defying swine.”
His lips twitched, fighting a smile even as he turned and resumed climbing the staircase. Relief mingled with amusement, and his awkwardness and regret over his confession dissipated.
At the top of the stairs, he pressed in a code on the keypad next to the door and twisted the knob. But didn’t push the door open. Instead, he pivoted and faced Corrine. A conscience he’d long believed he’d beaten into submission raised a defiant, weary fist.
“Corrine, before you walk through this door, you need to fully understand where you’re going…what you’re agreeing to.” He flicked a hand in the direction of the door. “Lick is the nightclub, but The Loft…The Loft is totally different. You said you heard rumors. But, baby, the gossip probably doesn’t come anywhere near the truth. It’s where people come to indulge every fantasy, need, or desire they have in a safe, private place.”
She frowned. “You mean a BDSM club or something?”
“No, an aphrodisiac club,” he corrected. “Almost anything goes here. Nothing demeaning or sick. And nothing illegal. But everything else? BDSM. Bondage. Voyeurism. Role play. And more. Here, it’s all about the fantasy, and people go through an intense application process and pay a fee to have that fantasy. You’re going in as my guest, and that binds you to the same rules as members, especially confidentiality. And consent. Always consent. Understand?”
“Yes,” she said, glancing behind him at the closed door before returning her attention to him. “You’re not leaving me, right?”
“No, lisichka,” he murmured. “I won’t leave your side.”
“Okay.” She nodded, released a small puff of air. “Okay,” she repeated. “Anything else?”
“One more thing. I need a safe word from you. Just one, and it can’t be no or yes. If you say this word, I shut down whatever we’re doing. Immediately. It’s like a kill switch, and it’s for your protection.”
She frowned, and he had to forcibly keep his hands by his sides instead of smoothing out the crease between her eyebrows. He wouldn’t touch her, even in a small way, until she had all the information about what to expect, and their boundaries were set.
“Grand slam,” she finally said. He narrowed his eyes, and she shrugged. “What? People say it like it’s one word.”
Shaking his head, he turned back around, swallowing his chuckle. Once more he keyed in his code and, this time, pushed the door open. A small, delicate hand slipped into his, and he stiffened even as his fingers closed around hers. Had he ever held hands with a woman? Even a girl? No. Surprise ricocheted through him, pinging off the wall of his chest. Hell no, he never had.
Part of him almost jerked his hand free, the gesture causing an unsettling itch to prickle under his skin. But before he shook off her touch, logic reigned. She was entering a totally foreign, new place, and he’d just promised not to leave her side. Holding his hand was probably her way of ensuring he kept his word. Of having something secure and familiar to cling to as she entered a world she didn’t know how to navigate. Accepting this reason, he tightened his grip and guided her forward into the converted warehouse lofts that housed the aphrodisiac club.
“Holy shit,” she whispered.
He glanced down at her before following the direction of her wide-eyed stare into the large, open area of the playroom. Couches, tables, and benches dotted the space, and a tall St. Andrew’s Cross stood in one of the corners. Beyond the wide room, a corridor led to several private rooms, their multicolored doors closed. Murals of masked dancers in ornate costumes and an opulent ballroom with a crystal chandelier and a mysterious robed figure adorned the walls that weren’t exposed brick. Rion’s doing. As were the different colors of the doors lining the hallway. It was all from one of the Edgar Allan Poe stories he loved to read.
But he doubted her gasped expletive had been about the décor. That honor more than likely belonged to the play already in progress.
On one of the wide armchairs, a woman, bare from the waist up, perched on the lap of a man, who tweaked and pinched her nipples. Both watched two women on the opposite sofa rub and grind their pussies together.
An older man in a gray business suit lounged in a corner of another black, leather couch, a tumbler in one hand, his other buried in the hair of the younger man straddling his lap, kissing him with a passion that had onl
y one destination. Whether it would end up in one of the rooms or here in the playroom for everyone to watch was the only question.
And in the corner of the room, a blonde woman wearing only a deep-pink thong orgasmed loud and rough as a man delivered lashes to her ass and thighs with a whip.
Just another night in The Loft, but for Corrine… He returned his attention to her face, studying it for hints of discomfort, disgust, or worse, fear. But one look at her… Fuck. He grit his teeth against the blast of lust that barreled through him and culminated in his dick. Color slashed her cheekbones, but it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was excitement. Her green eyes glittered with hunger, hoarse pants broke on her parted lips, and her breasts rose and fell under the loose, white halter top. He recognized this expression. It’d taunted him since the night before, featuring in the few hours of sleep he’d managed to grab. He’d expected her to be shocked, maybe repulsed.
He hadn’t predicted the need that suffused her beautiful features—as if she’d walked into a room with a long buffet table weighted down with food and hadn’t realized she was starving until her eyes lit on the offerings.
“Be right back. Don’t move,” he rasped. He circled the wide carpeted area and strode down the shadowed corridor to one of the rooms. Quickly, he found what he sought, then returned to Corrine. She’d obeyed his instructions and hadn’t moved, her scrutiny still pinned to the sexual play unfolding before her.
Shifting behind her, he settled a black half mask in the shape of a butterfly over the upper half of her face. She jolted in surprise, her hands immediately flying to touch the lace concealing her features, but she didn’t object. In seconds, he tied the strings under the white-blonde hair of the wig. He hated the hair piece, although he silently praised her ingenuity in thinking of it. It helped in camouflaging her identity, but he wanted to grip her natural, dark-red hair, wrap the silken fire around his fist as she swallowed him between those perfect, lush lips created for fucking. He might be developing a fascination with the thick strands. Because as much as he imagined them spread over his thighs, he also envisioned them curtaining his face, brushing his lips…
Oh yeah, fascination.
He captured her hand in his and led her farther into the playroom, not stopping until they stood in the middle of the area. She didn’t object, but a fine tension invaded her body, tightening her shoulders, dropping her gaze from his. There was the embarrassment. He didn’t possess any psychic skills, but he could easily read her discomfort at being center stage, so to speak. Pinching her chin, he tilted her head up, forced her to look at him. Long, thick lashes hid her eyes. But he waited, and after several seconds, those lashes lifted, the dark lace of the mask deepening the vibrant green.
“You want to use your safe word, lisichka?” He’d end it that moment…even if it would feel like having his balls punted up in his gut.
“No,” she said, her voice containing a slight tremble. “I—” She swallowed, her hands fluttering by her sides before resting on his waist. Clutching his shirt. “I’m ready.”
He’d always admired bravery, and tonight was no different. Well, yeah, it was. Before this moment, courage hadn’t been hot as hell.
“Good,” he murmured, smoothing his palms down her bare arms to her wrists, then retracing the soft path back to her shoulders. Lowering his head, he breathed her in—the faint chemical smell of the wig and the sultry sweetness of her. Like peaches warmed by the sun. With a low hum, he laced his fingers behind her neck, his thumbs resting under her jaw and nudging her head up. Lowering his, he brushed his mouth over hers. And then because the softness of her lips just felt so damn good, he did it again. “You claim you want me, what I have to offer. Here’s where you prove it, lisichka,” he murmured. “I’m going to strip you of these clothes, let everyone stare at these beautiful tits, gorgeous ass, and pretty pussy. Get their fill of what I have and they can’t touch. Then, I’m going to lay you on the table behind you, spread you wide, and eat you until you come for me. Come for everyone in here. Understand?”
She stared at him, eyes wide. Surprise, anxiety, and doubt—they were reflected in her gaze, in the parting of her lips, and quick puffs of breath. Her tongue slipped out, dampened her bottom lip, and he waited for her to tell him never mind, that she couldn’t go through with this. Resignation settled in his chest; he’d purposefully chosen this sexual situation first. To push her. See if she could handle it. And also, because the first night she’d been in the club, he’d noticed how she’d stared at the people around her. Envy had flashed across her face…envy and lust.
But he should’ve guessed she would balk. This wasn’t for her—
“Yes,” she whispered. “I understand.”
His breath caught, sure he hadn’t heard right. But oh, hell yeah, he had. “Keep your eyes on me,” he said against her lips. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, and admiration for her, even as he read her trepidation, swelled inside him. “Good girl,” he praised.
Slowly, he untied the knot of material at the nape of her neck. The halter top drifted to her waist, leaving her in a black strapless bra. He bit back a groan at the sight of all that golden flesh cupped by dark silk. Served up to him like a delicious treat he could feast on and never be satisfied. Skipping the bra for the moment, he knelt before her and slowly unzipped and removed each boot. Rising to his feet again, he captured her gaze, giving her an anchor in this new sea she was diving into. He unfastened her pants and slid the leather down her legs, leaving her clad in only a pair of black panties and her bra.
Christ.
He slowly exhaled, praying some of the lust whipping through him like a damn tornado would escape so he wouldn’t tear the remaining scraps of clothing from her and climb on top of her like an animal.
She was gorgeous. He spoke two languages, and yet neither contained a word adequate enough to accurately describe her. But Jesus, she defied description, even in the wig that was just wrong against her pale-gold, lightly freckled skin. Corrine wasn’t thin; she possessed curves that women paid surgeons to get. Full, firm breasts that her bra deserved a medal for supporting. A tiny waist and a sexy flare of hips his fingers itched to grab and dig into. And that ass. He swallowed an almost feral growl. The leather pants had molded over the flesh, but the high cut of her panties highlighted its perfection. Any Renaissance artist worth his brushes would’ve begged and pleaded to paint her lush beauty. Throw in the intelligence that gleamed in her emerald gaze, and the unexpected and a little quirky humor. She was a gift.
And she’d come to him—a disgrace, ex-thief, and sex-club owner.
“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice rough.
Pink tinged her cheekbones and the top of her chest, but with an almost imperceptible nod, she pivoted, giving him her back. Presenting that sexy ass to him. Unable to not touch her, he shifted forward, plastering his chest to her shoulders and notching his cock right above the curve of her behind. Hissing out a breath, he stroked his hands up her thighs, over her hips, and over her belly until he cupped her tits. Squeezed them. Moaning low at the feel of her silken flesh in his hands, he swept his thumbs over the stiff little nipples that poked at him through her bra. Her whimper teased his ears. Made him hungry for more of those sounds. She’d issued a challenge downstairs—make her scream. He gladly picked up the thrown gauntlet.
“Look at how they’re staring at you, lisichka,” he murmured in her ear, quickly unhooking her bra and dropping it to the floor, then returning his hands to her flesh. Without the barrier of clothing, he teased and pinched the hard tips, watching over her shoulder as the color deepened from pink to a dark rose. “See how they’re getting aroused by these beautiful tits, wishing it was their hands squeezing you, their hands filled with you.” He abandoned one breast and stroked a palm down her stomach, not stopping until his fingers encountered her soft sex and liquid heat. He groaned, planting an openmouthed kiss under her ear. Sucking the thin skin.
“They’re wishing it was their
fingers sliding through this tight pussy, their fingers drenched with your sweet juice.” He circled her clit, and she jerked in his arms, her hips rolling against his caress. “Look at them, lisichka. See their hunger. They want to fuck you, want to see your pleasure, want to feel it.” He wasn’t lying; several more people had filtered into the playroom to watch this woman with the blushing skin come undone. Their eyes were fixed on her sensual undulations, on her body that twisted and arched. More than one cock was out—more than one woman was being fingered, even screwed, as they greedily observed Sasha and Corrine’s show. “But they’ll have to be satisfied with staring, won’t they? Because no one gets to touch you but me.”
Before he finished speaking, he turned her around and laid her on the smoked-glass table behind her. He dropped to his knees, hauling her close to the edge, then yanking her panties down her slender, long legs. Baring her pink, swollen, glistening folds to him. A small, neat triangle of hair framed her sex, turned a dark auburn by the moisture coating it.
“Krasavitsa,” he crooned. Beautiful. He dragged a finger through her slit and drew it back soaked with the evidence of her lust. Her cry ripped through the room, her hands clutching at and releasing the smooth glass of the table. With a hum, he sucked her juice clean, and God, the flavor of her. Sweet, tangy, fresh…her. The one taste had his gut clenching in hunger, demanding more. “And good. So fucking good. I want more. I want it all,” he finished on a growl.
Then he took.
And took.
He lashed at the clit cresting the top of her sex, torturing it with gentle licks then firm sucks. The engorged nub pulsed and jumped under his tongue, standing at stiffer and stiffer attention with each caress. And it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. He dipped his head, spreading her thighs wide as he speared her core with his tongue, thrusting it as far as it would go. Lapping up every bit of wetness that coated her entire sex.
