The Gate (Dark Path Series)

by Grant, KT

  He pinched her chin, tsking when a tear fell from the corner of her eye. He wiped it away. “You knew the consequences when you promised yourself to him. Remember how I asked you multiple times if you were ready for that type of commitment? You can’t expect Raymond to walk away after you—”

  “I know!” She jumped up from the couch, crossing her arms. Behind her the two men embraced, the cowboy fiddling with his lover’s cock and balls.

  Leaning forward, he stared up at her. “I’ve given you advice many times about you and Raymond. There’s nothing more I can do. He has a claim on you that’s unbreakable. Unless you repeat your safe word over and over in his presence, you have no choice but to accept the inevitable.”

  Stomping to one of the chairs, she plopped down. She draped her leg over the arm and pouted. He chuckled.

  “Go ahead, laugh. It’s so ha-ha.”

  “It’s not.” He sat back. “Will he make you leave The Gate?”

  She held up her palm. “I don’t want to talk about him anymore. How about you? When was the last time you got off?” She gave him a wicked grin.

  He stared at the ceiling. “The last time I came here.”

  “That was last Friday. I blame the recent anorexic bimbo you were screwing for your neglecting us. Before you met her, you were revved to go from Thursday night on. Calista didn’t just suck a month of your life away but your soul.”

  “Stop being melodramatic. I thought I could abstain for a while. I’ve been in the scene for almost twenty years and wanted a break.”

  “Break?” She snorted. “Bullshit.” She swung her leg back and forth, giving him a perfect view of what lay between her thighs. He expected to see bare pussy, but a flash of black underwear met his gaze.

  Rising, she came over, climbing on top of him. He seized her by the waist, allowing her to straddle him.

  “Oh, someone has a woody.” She moaned in dramatic fashion, circling her hips.

  “Play nice.” He tugged on her belly button ring.

  Stilling, she stared at him. “You need relief. I can help you with that.”

  “You’re offering a fuck after all these years?”

  Moving off him, she swatted him, and he held up his hands in defense. “No way! You’re like a brother to me. If Raymond found out you had your dick inside me, he’d beat the shit out of you.”

  “He’d beat the shit out of you first,” he joked, giving her knee a light squeeze. “And you would get off on it.”

  Smiling, she twisted one of her thumb rings. The room across from them stood vacant.

  “I met someone. I think she might be open to trying this—” He circled his finger in the air. “—among other things. But I have to be careful with her. I don’t want to frighten her away.”

  “Really? It’s been a few years since you had a submissive at your beck and call. Have you approached her about your hobby?”

  “Not yet. But soon.” He thought back to Erika, how she’d dipped the spoon into their dessert then licked it clean. He hissed as his cock throbbed, and he dug his fingers into his legs.

  “You’ve got it bad. I haven’t seen you so tense in a long time.” Catherine stood, holding out her hand. “I have some time to kill. Let me take you in the room next door. You can cuff me to one of the benches and paddle my ass. How does twenty smacks sound?”

  “You’re serious? I can’t remember the last time you let me—”

  “Have your depraved way with me with a paddle and other toys? You need to release some tension. I’m willing to give it to you.”

  “In the form of your lily white ass that I’ll change to a nice blazing red?”

  Nodding, she tugged on his arm. “As long as you keep your dick in your pants, you can do whatever you want to my ass.”

  He stood, and she steered him into the next room. Without batting an eyelash, she grabbed a towel and, using her boot, wiped away the wet spots on the floor. Taking another towel, she draped it across one of the benches. She bent forward, her ass elevated in the air. Wiggling, she winked at him over her shoulder.

  He selected a leather paddle hanging from the wall. “Do I need to cuff you?”

  “No, I have a good grip. Unless you want to cuff me?” she asked, her voice higher than usual.

  He removed a black silk scarf from his pocket, holding it out to her. “Cover your eyes and grab on tightly. I’m feeling very generous tonight.”

  “Yes, Mr. Leon,” she said, uttering the name he used exclusively at The Gate.

  While she tied the scarf around her head, he flipped up her skirt and rubbed both bare ass cheeks—the black panties were a thong.

  “When you scream, call me sir.” He kissed each globe. Standing back, he hoisted the paddle in the air.

  She spread her legs apart. “I’m not going to scream or call you sir,” she said with a saucy tone.

  “You won’t make it to ten.” He swung the paddle as hard as he could at her ass.

  She didn’t scream, squeaking and whimpering instead. When the tenth smack came, she cursed him. He kept up the pace, never stopping, imagining Erika in Catherine’s place. Right at number twenty when she cried out the word “sir”, he came in his pants, while Erika’s name echoed in his head.

  Chapter Six

  Catherine didn’t judge. She was glad to help Max release the tension eating away at him. She hoped the woman he chose as his next submissive realized that. And she’d better have an ass of steel because the man had quite the hook on him.

  She went up to the fifth floor to her suite to dab ointment on her bottom and the backs of her thighs. Along with the healing bruises and whip marks—thanks to her own master—she was more tender than usual. After taking care of her ass, she touched up her makeup and brushed her hair. She didn’t seek out Max again. She would give him time to reflect on the way his body had reacted to paddling her. It took a lot for him to come undone like he did with her.

  She thought of Raymond, his daring smile, teasing blue eyes. She could almost hear him purring in her ear with that seductive, make-her-panties-wet French accent when he called her ma moitie—my half. She missed him dearly. His guidance and support had helped her move on after Cameron’s death. For six years, Raymond had been her entire world, perhaps even more so than her deceased fiancé. She’d been with two men in her adult life, caretakers of her heart, body, and soul, but each in very different ways.

  The week before, when she went to her master after he’d instructed her not once but twice to come to him, there had been no other choice. He never asked, he demanded. She was expected to obey. If he’d told her a third time and she refused, he would’ve punished her just like the last time she left him when—

  As the elevator doors opened, shrill laughter jerked her out of her thoughts. The first floor swarmed with people. The majority of women wore flashy eye masks and brandished paddles and whips. So was the typical scene the first Friday of the month when it was Ladies Night. A female could go around mastering any male or, for that matter, their own gender if they chose to. She breathed in the scents of leather and musk, including the undercurrent of sex—much like a sweaty swollen cunt that had been fucked raw.

  She walked toward the bar-lounge where it was less wild. The majority drank soda or juice since they were permitted one alcoholic drink an hour per house rules. Alcohol and kinky, fucked-up sexual acts just didn’t mix well together.

  She went to give one of the bartenders a break but noticed a man sitting alone at the far end of the counter. He sipped his drink, staring at the half naked bodies gyrating in a glass box behind the bar. For the past two weeks, from Thursday to Saturday, starting at nine o’clock until around midnight, he would sit, drinking some juice concoction, never moving from his perch. When someone approached him, he waved him or her away.

  The lights overhead flashed on him. Staring straight at her with those big brown eyes, he raised his glass in a salute. His shaggy, grayish-blond hair needed a good cut, the strands falling near his shoul
ders, the tips just touching.

  She met his gaze, waiting to see who would look away first, but lost herself in his penetrating, mesmerizing eyes. She blinked, losing the game, and tilted her head in acknowledgement. He lifted his glass again, shaking it.

  Her head bartender moved to refill his glass, but Catherine stopped her. “I’ll take care of the lonely heart in the corner.”

  The woman backed up, nodding at another customer who flagged her. “Go ahead. He’s just a baby anyway. Not my thing.”

  Swallowing a laugh, she approached the cute kid who had to be at least twenty-one—a good ten years her junior—or he wouldn’t have been let in the club. But he didn’t look much older than that.

  “Can I get you another one?” She held out her hand for his glass. “What are you having?”

  He didn’t pass it to her. “You don’t know who I am?”

  “Should I?” He had a memorable face, clean cut, noticeable, but they had never met before.

  His mouth tilted up in a brief smile, a dimple appearing near his left cheek only to vanish. “Have you heard of Westerfield Hotels?”

  Everyone knew of Westerfield’s, the high-class hotel conglomerate. Cameron had taken her to one to celebrate their engagement.

  She shrugged. “Sure, I stayed in the one near Lincoln Center. It’s a nice place. Are you the owner or something like that?” she joked, waiting to see if he would lie to impress her.

  Folding his hands on the bar, he leaned forward. Humored, she moved in to hear what he had to say.

  “I’m the heir to the Westerfield fortune. I turned twenty-one two weeks ago, and not only do I own a big percentage of the business, thanks to my sweet, departed grandmother, but I’m worth one-hundred million dollars.”

  She hid her surprise by grabbing an empty glass and filling it with seltzer. So, here was the golden child, Bryan Westerfield, the son to one of the richest men in New York State—maybe even the East Coast—and the grandson of Ava Westerfield? The tabloids were merciless about his parents, including his mother who ended up totaling her car ten years ago when she raced with one of her lovers down FDR Drive. Rumors persisted his father was gay which was why his wife had cheated. The press also questioned Bryan’s sexuality, a disgusting thing to do to the boy. But then speculation died down—or rather, Papa Westerfield put a stop to it. The last known piece of information was that both father and son resided somewhere in Connecticut, inaccessible to the paparazzi.

  She motioned to his empty glass. “Congratulations, birthday boy. Your next drink is on the house. What would you like?”

  He sat back, eyeing her as if she was a snake ready to attack. “You’re not impressed. Most girls are.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m not most girls. Why should I be wowed you have money? Most who come here do.” She anchored a hand on her hip.

  “Shouldn’t the drink be on you and not on the house?”

  She’d expected some snarky comment, but his question sounded innocent from the tone in his voice.

  “I hope you don’t mean in the literal sense.” She grabbed his glass. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “Apple juice. Please.” He crossed his arms, a hooded look coming over his face as he licked his bottom lip.

  She shook her head at his change in his demeanor, including his tongue, which was one of the longest she’d seen on a man.

  His brows rose. “What?”

  “That’s quite a tongue you have there. How can your mouth handle it?” Not waiting for a response, she took the apple juice out of the fridge. She poured the liquid in his glass then set it down on a cocktail napkin. He sat with his arms still crossed but with a much bigger smile than before.

  “My tongue can do amazing things.” Sticking it out, he touched the tip of his nose.

  After taking a long drink of her seltzer, she clapped in a deadpan manner. “Impressive. What else can you do?”

  He swiped his finger down the side of the glass. “Many things. Interested in finding out?”

  “Simmer down, Junior.” She held up her palms. “How about we keep our tongues to ourselves.”

  “I share the same first name with my dad.” He sipped from his glass. “But we don’t have the same tongue length. I’ve always wondered if we shared the same pe—”

  “I can see where you’re going. I’ll just take your word for it.” She should walk away, but she was having fun. He wasn’t being rude or snobby like some of his type tended to be when they came to play.

  “I was going to say our shoe size.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she chuckled.

  “Sure, Junior. Anyway, where’s your entourage? I thought a guy worth millions would be surrounded by at least twenty uber hot babes who’d hang on your every word, expecting you to pick one of them to go home with you tonight.”

  As she went to refill her glass, his hand shot out, grasping her wrist. She almost twisted away and told him to fuck off, but his imploring stare gave her pause.

  “I’m not like those other spoiled rich kids. I also don’t fool around with those groupie chicks who are just interested in me because of who I am and how much I’m worth.” His laugh came out hollow. Giving her wrist a squeeze, he released her. “You’re going to think I’m bullshitting you, but I’m still a virgin.”

  Stupefied, she couldn’t think of anything to say. There weren’t many twenty-one year old virgin men running around—especially ones looking like him.

  Setting her arms on the bar, she eased forward, invading his personal space. He didn’t seem to mind, leaning toward her.

  “Do you want to know why I’m still a virgin?”

  She nodded. “Sure. It’s not every day I meet a boy your age who hasn’t had his cherry popped.”

  “I’m not a boy.” He scowled. “I haven’t met the right woman I’m comfortable giving my body to. She must accept my faults, inside and out.”

  Where the fuck was he going with his peevish gripe? Many who came to The Gate needed someone to talk to. She was generous and didn’t charge to hear people complain about their problems.

  “Is that why you came here? You think you’ll find your ideal woman here, of all places, who’ll make you a man? Good luck with that.” She deliberately sounded snide, unbelieving. If the poor boy…man thought he’d find his one true love among the needy souls at The Gate, he was in for a surprise.

  “It’s possible. I’ve been watching her here for two weeks.” He brushed his finger down the side of her face. “She’s talking to me right now.”

  Catherine jumped back, shaken. Oh, wow. Déjà vu. Raymond had said almost the exact same thing when they first met. He’d decided within minutes she was the one for him. But he’d wanted to own her. She had accepted after being seduced, taking what he offered because she still couldn’t forgive herself for Cameron’s death.

  “Shocked?” He folded his hands on the bar, his smug expression pissing her off. “Good.”

  She twisted her belly button ring around. Eyeing him, she shifted to the side and winced, her skirt brushing across her sore ass. She almost gave her cheeks a rub, but held back because of the way the kid studied her.

  “What do you want me to say? I don’t sleep with the guests. But if you want me for something else, like what goes on in the many rooms, you have to pay for it. My starting price is five thousand for one hour. But you’re too green, an infant. You wouldn’t be able to handle what I dish out.” She lifted her chin, egging him on.

  “Oh really? What if I’m willing to triple your price?”

  “Would you expect sex in that hour?”

  “Yes.” He gave her an unwavering stare. “But first I would want you to tie me up and beat me until I cried like a little bitch. I’d have it no other way.”

  She opened her mouth to snap back, but again, she was at a loss for words. The only man she let get away talking to her in a cocky way was Max. Hell, this barely legal, hot mess is a Max in the making!

  She crooked her finger, and he bent forward. Resting her
arm on his shoulder, she took his hand, brushing her thumb over the inside of his wrist. “Now, listen carefully. I’d break you within ten minutes of our play. Also, I don’t have sex with my male clients—”

  Her fingers had inched up his arm, delving under his shirt. The skin there didn’t feel smooth but was raised and ragged as if he cut…. Oh, shit.

  Stopping her caress, she pushed up the sleeve, baring the underside of his arm. Zigzagging scars scored his lower arm, leading up to under his elbow. Some were deeper than others. Discoloration and small circular bruises like burns were imbedded in his skin.

  “What did you do to yourself?” She lifted her gaze to his.

  “After my mom died, I was very…unhappy. I had a lot of anger and grief inside me. I released it by cutting and burning my arms. My left arm isn’t as bad as my right because I’m left handed. I don’t do it as much as I used to, but sometimes I can’t stop myself.” His voice shook. “Ah, shit. You must think I’m really disturbed now.”

  “So you came here for what, salvation? I can’t help you there.” Giving his hand a pat, she stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe I can change your mind.” He finished his drink. His hand didn’t shake as she expected.

  “I can find one of the ladies here who can help you—”

  “No. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

  She’d gotten many requests based on word of mouth, but nothing like his offer. “Why me?”

  “When I walked in here two Thursdays ago at midnight on my twenty-first birthday, you were the first woman I saw. You looked like an angel. I felt it deep in here.” He hit his chest with his fist. “Still do. I can’t explain the whys or hows, but I know you’re the one who can save me, help me get rid of my pesky virginity.”

  He seemed like such a nice guy, but like most of the men who came to The Gate, he had a screw loose. The word “fuck” kept repeating in her mind, and she rubbed her forehead. “I’m no angel. I’m more of a devil if anything.”