Mountain Man's Baby Plan

by Nikki Chase

  But if I have sex with a stranger—who may be wearing a mask—while I’m on the job, what does that make me?

  I mean, I don’t have a rigid view on morality, but I’d still essentially be doing it (1) with a stranger, and (2) as an optional part of my job.

  So, not to get too pedantic and all, but wouldn’t that make me … a sex worker?

  My skin crawls at the thought. I know some people do it and they’re happy with their choices—good for them. But I don’t know if I can make peace with the thought that I’ve been a sex worker at some point in my life.

  Kendra was right. The atmosphere in this place is highly sexual. The air sizzles with tension and unspoken desire.

  Multiple men are looking in my direction. I can’t even see their faces, but I can sense their hunger—their masks can’t hide that.

  The worst thing? I can feel myself slowly getting sucked into it all, and I don’t think I could stop now if I tried. I want to see what else The Succubus has to offer.

  At the very least, I’ll finish my shift tonight.

  It’s only one night. What’s the worst that can happen?

  If I still feel uncomfortable about it by the end of the night, I’m going to tell Kendra I’m quitting.

  See, I’m being sensible.

  It’s going to be okay. Nothing life-changing is going to happen tonight.

  This is just like any other waitressing job, except with more nudity. The dark and scary image is probably just for branding and marketing purposes.

  Yeah, that’s it. I’m completely safe.

  …

  Except from myself.

  Adam

  Everything in this place has been designed to tease and titillate the senses—from the dim lighting to the three girls in the lobby who look like they’ve been spray-painted gold.

  The main hall is dark, protecting the anonymity of the rich and powerful men who sit in the audience. In contrast, the stage is flooded with light, exposing the nakedness and vulnerability of the performers.

  I say “performers,” but most of the men on stage are paying customers of The Succubus, and even some of the girls are here by choice.

  After all, both dominant men—Doms—and submissive women—subs—are welcome here, as long as they know the right people and pass the rigorous background checks conducted by the club. Oh, and pay the annual membership fee every year, without fail.

  I once talked to a guy in The Succubus who told me it had taken him seven years to get approved for a membership the second time. The club had made him jump through hoops to get in again, saying they only had a certain number of spots available and they wanted to make sure those spots went to their most loyal customers.

  I hate that the club uses such a cheap tactic to pressure people to keep their memberships active, but I’ll have to admit it works.

  Like a sucker, I keep paying the exorbitant fee, even though I haven’t even been here in over a year. The annual membership costs the same as a top-of-the-line Lamborghini, but I can’t bring myself to cancel it.

  Maybe it’s stupid to keep paying the fee, but what am I going to do with another car anyway?

  This place, though. It keeps luring me back in, whispering false promises that never come true. Every time I leave this place, I feel empty and hopeless.

  Still, I keep coming back, hoping to find … I don’t know, something. I don’t know what it is I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.

  I take my seat in a quiet corner and glance at the stage. Three girls are locked up in tiny cages while a Dom slides his dick into the one in the middle, making her gasp and whimper. Meanwhile, he pushes his fingers into the other two girls, starting a cacophony of female moans.

  My cock stirs in my pants as I sit in my plush chair.

  Here we go again. I’m going to go home with blue balls tonight. I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself.

  The show unfolding on stage is good. It’s great. I don’t have any complaints about it. My dick obviously approves of it.

  The problem is, I don’t know what to do with the lust that’s plaguing me right now.

  It would be easy enough to find a girl who’ll slip away into one of the private rooms with me. I’ve gotten several offers, both from fellow members of The Succubus and from the waitresses, even though I haven’t even been actively looking.

  There’s only one obstacle preventing me from doing just that. I can’t find anyone I want to take into a private room.

  It’s not that the girls are unattractive. The Succubus isn’t only strict with its membership criteria, but also its employment criteria. At the very least, every girl who works here is conventionally attractive.

  It’s not about what the girls are doing either. I find it hot that they’re often restrained with cuffs and chains, and I like the fact that they’re obedient and eager to please.

  I’ll admit the ropes that bind their bodies light up my imagination with possibilities, but they’re not what I’m looking for.

  Let’s face it, though, I’m probably never going to find what I’m looking for.

  I used to come here every week for years until it started to interfere with my work. If I was ever going to find it, I would’ve found it then.

  A loud crashing sound jars me back to reality.

  I turn toward the aisle by my seat and catch sight of a girl crouching on the ground, picking up glasses and pieces of food that she’s dropped from her tray.

  “Sorry,” she says in a loud whisper as she looks around at everyone who’s glaring at her because of the noise she made. “I’m so sorry.”

  Then, our eyes lock.

  It’s ridiculous, but I feel like time has stopped. It’s like in the movies when everything’s in slow motion and Ella James starts singing “At Last.”

  She’s beautiful. The dark eyebrows over her big, expressive eyes are pulled together with worry. Her teeth stab her bottom lip, making me want to claim that mouth for myself.

  She’s crouching by my chair as she picks up shards of glass with her delicate hands. She’s so close I can almost just grab her and ravish her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, restarting the clock with her voice.

  I’ve never had that slow-motion moment in my life before, and this clumsy girl somehow does it for me? What just happened?

  “Who are you?” I blurt out.

  “Huh?” she asks, tilting her head in the most adorable way.

  I clear my throat. There’s no need to get nervous here.

  This girl obviously works at The Succubus, which means she knows the rules. She’s broken a few of them already in less than one minute.

  “Haven’t you been told how you’re supposed to address me?” I ask.

  She freezes, realizing her mistake. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’m so sorry.” Looking around, she adds, “Would you mind not telling anybody about this? I could fix this before it becomes a problem … Sir.”

  She must be new here. But even new employees must know they’re supposed to blend into the background. That definitely means they shouldn’t be telling customers what to do, especially when it involves hiding things from her employer.

  This girl’s been bad.

  And I’m itching to punish her.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Katie,” she answers.

  I smile to myself in the dark. She really is new.

  With a mask over the top half of my face, Katie won’t be able to recognize me if we run into each other outside the club. Sure, she may know my name, but she won’t know we’ve met.

  If I see her in the real world, though, I’ll know exactly who she is. Unlike the other girls, she hasn’t even bothered coming up with a fake name.

  This is either her very first night or she doesn’t talk much with the other girls—who usually have names like Candy, Cherry, or Chastity.

  Katie is a nice name. A perfectly good name. But it’s not sensual or suggestive. It’s not the kind of n
ame most people would pick as a sexy alias.

  “Katie, huh?” I ask, still smiling.

  “Um, yes.” She quickly adds, “I mean, yes, Sir. Can I please continue cleaning, Sir?”

  “No, leave it alone,” I tell her.

  She stares at me, apprehension in her eyes. Jesus, those eyes. I can see everything she’s feeling, every single emotion.

  She wants to say something, but she doesn’t know how I’m going to react, so she’s decided to wait and see, instead of digging a deeper hole for herself. Smart girl.

  I get up from my chair, and her gaze follows me.

  Good. I’ve got her attention.

  “Come with me.” I hold out my hand.

  “Uh …” Katie hesitates. “Can I clean this up first before we go, Sir?”

  “Are you saying you want me to help you hide your little accident from the club?” I cock an eyebrow.

  “No,” Katie answers quickly. “I mean, no, Sir.”

  She pauses, seemingly considering her options. When she meets my gaze, she’s made a decision, although I can tell she’s not completely comfortable with it.

  She puts her hand on mine, and her soft skin sends a jolt of electricity through my system.

  I stare at her, dumbfounded. Who’s this girl, and what did she just do to me?

  Katie

  What just happened?

  I stare at the man in shock.

  Something just happened, right?

  The way he’s staring at me … It’s hard to tell because he’s wearing that mask, but I think he felt it, too.

  “Let’s go,” he says as he pulls me up effortlessly. Obviously, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, taking one last glance at the mess I’m leaving on the floor.

  Two cocktail glasses are on the ground, the liquid seeping into the red carpet. And two guests are going to have to wait a long time to get their drinks.

  Kendra’s going to kill me. And then, I’m going to get fired.

  But who cares? It’s not like I need the money from this job anyway.

  “You need to learn to address me properly, Katie,” the masked man says. His big, strong hand is hot on my skin as he leads me down the aisle to the back of the hall.

  I don’t need to learn anything because I’m getting fired soon anyway—because of him. Where does this guy get off, telling me what to do?

  Oh, god, I’m really not suited for this job. I’m not some obedient girl who can just sit still while a man walks all over me—there’s nothing that makes me angrier than a man who does that.

  But this is a job, and I need to remember to follow the rules.

  And I hate to admit it, but the man holding my hand right now … Even though I hate the way he’s been bossing me around, there’s something about him. Tingles spread all over my body from the place where our hands touch.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. Where are we going?” I ask as the man pulls me into a hallway.

  He takes sure, confident steps with his long legs. He cuts a sharp figure in his slim, grey business suit. The back of his suit jacket pulls snugly across his broad back.

  I see hints of powerful, muscular arms under his sleeves, which make me wonder what else is hiding underneath those clothes.

  I may be able to get a better look if the lighting were better. But like the rest of the club, it’s dark in this hallway.

  There are crystal chandeliers overhead, casting soft, warm light all over the walls and carpeted floor. Mirrors hang on the walls, as well as paintings of women being bound naked and men striking them with crops and whips.

  Along with the cries and moans from the women on stage, the atmosphere feels thick with sexual energy.

  I can’t ignore the throbbing in my core or the fact that the man holding my hand right now is the main cause.

  “Sir, where are you taking me?” I ask again.

  The man stops in his tracks and stalks toward me, forcing me to step backward until the heel of my shoe hits the wall.

  “You need to learn to be silent when you’re not being spoken to, Katie,” he says in a deep voice laced with danger. “Didn’t the club tell you how to behave?”

  Oh, right. I may have zoned out a few times during Kendra’s briefing earlier.

  “I’m sorry, Sir. This is my first night.”

  “I know. I can tell.” He takes another step closer and leans down, leveling his gaze at me. He’s so close I can see the wicked glint in his green eyes and the short stubble along his strong jawline. “For future reference, next time I see you here, you’re going to stay silent until you’re spoken to, understand?”

  I swallow. My heart pounds against my chest.

  I should be angry. I should push him back and show him where to shove that attitude.

  But I don’t want to do any of those things, and not just because this is a job.

  His gaze … It entraps me and hypnotizes me. The darkness in his eyes calls out to me. It sucks me in.

  “Yes, Sir.” I find myself melting under his command.

  “Good girl.” His voice sends a thrill down my spine. My chest expands, taking in his praise.

  What’s wrong with me? Why do I care what this stranger thinks about me?

  But for some reason, I crave that feeling again, that assurance that I’m doing good, that thrill of knowing he takes pleasure in me.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me for saying something nice to you, Katie?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Thank you, Sir.” A gasp interrupts my voice when the mysterious man nibbles on my earlobe.

  “You’re welcome.” His breath tickles my neck. “Now, you were asking me about where I was taking you.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I gulp down my nervousness, grateful for the mint a girl gave me before I walked out into the big hall with my tray of drinks.

  “Did you listen when they told you about the private rooms, Katie?” He leans his forehead against mine, our noses grazing against each other.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The private room is where all the dirtiest, kinkiest things happen—behind closed doors where nobody can see.

  Someone’s true self comes out when they’re anonymous; that’s why Internet forums are filled with hatred and stupidity.

  If this man takes me to a private room, there’s no saying what he’ll do to me. With the mask over his face, I don’t even know who he is.

  Am I really ready for this?

  And am I seriously considering having sex with a man as part of a job?

  I mean, there’s real attraction here. I’d still sleep with this man if we weren’t waitress and customer.

  At the same time, maybe there wouldn’t be this level of attraction had we met outside, in the real world. The whole club has been designed to create exactly this kind of situations. The dark rooms, the hidden corners, the mystery …

  The sound of the man’s palms landing on the wall behind me jerks me back to reality. He’s caging me in.

  “I see you have trouble listening,” he says. “I can help you fix that.”

  Before I can protest, he grabs the hair at the base of my skull. It doesn’t hurt or anything, but it suddenly seems pointless to resist. He wants to consume me, and I want to be consumed by him.

  Pulling my hair to make me look up at him, he claims my mouth and gets me lost in the most intense, passionate kiss I’ve ever had. His lips, hot and firm, stokes the flame of arousal kindling within me.

  Just when I want more from him, he pulls away. I lean into him for another kiss, but he holds me in place by the hair.

  “I already know what your answer will be. But club rules say I need your explicit consent.” He smirks. “So, Katie, tell me, will you come with me to a private room?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I blurt out before I have a chance to overthink it.

  “Good girl,” he says in a voice that makes my core clench in anticipation.

  End of preview.

&nbs
p; Thank you for reading!

  Get Baby for My Brother’s Friend from Amazon and read the rest of the story now.

  Bonus: Knocked Up

  Kat

  “His office looks more like an upscale jazz lounge than a place of work, all dark wood and smooth leather. And it doesn’t only look good.

  “Whenever I take a seat on the designer chair across the desk from him, it feels like my ass is being cradled by fluffy clouds.”

  My boss stops reading and turns his steely blue eyes on me.

  “I’m glad you enjoy my furniture, Kat,” he says.

  “It’s fictional,” I say quickly, but my defense sounds as thin as Keira Knightley, even to my own ears.

  Heath raises an eyebrow. “Your protagonist works in a private investment company. Her boss has made a fortune from going short on stocks of unethical companies, even though he’s only twenty-eight.

  “His last big move was basically a $100 million bet against this company that was running a pyramid scheme. Oh, and he’s also—” Heath glances at the screen of his computer “—a sanctimonious, arrogant bully.”

  I squirm in my seat as Heath stares at me.

  “Did I miss anything?” he asks. There’s no anger in his eyes. If anything, he seems amused by the whole thing. But I feel like crawling into a hole and dying.

  “Umm… Not really,” I lie.

  I wonder if he’s also noticed the part where my main character describes her boss as “a man with the body of a Greek god and the face of a Hollywood heart-throb.” Because—surprise, surprise—that’s based on him, too.

  “It may be fiction, but I’d say it’s at least based on a true story. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asks.

  I swallow. How is my throat so dry?

  “Very loosely based on reality. Just the background stuff, really.” I force my lips into a smile.

  “Hmm…” As Heath nods distractedly and leans forward to read the writing on the screen, the messy pile of dark hair on his head tumbles forward. His finger scrolls the wheel of the mouse.

  Normally, I’d be fantasizing about that digit scrolling my wheel, if you know what I mean. I mean the one in my panties—is that too vague? I’ve been wondering if I should use that in the final version of my novel. Either way, that’s the kind of dirty thought that’s gotten me into trouble in the first place.