PROLOGUE
GABRIEL
Years ago . . . when she was mine to do with as I pleased.
That sweet moan of hers is addictive. It spills from her lips easily while he fucks her. With every thrust, his hips force her lush ass to jiggle and her body sways slightly. With her dark hair in curls fallen around her shoulders, her bare back is visible. The velvet dress is an emerald puddle beneath her on the sofa. The thigh-highs held up by clips from her garter belt are a nice touch, though. One I chose myself.
I loosen my tie with one hand, my other hand still on her breast, kneading and plucking her hardened nipple. He’s the first of three tonight. The deal I made with Mr. Daniels is worth fourteen billion. His crisp, tailored suit that lies like rags on the floor reeks of wealth, and still, I’m worth more than every man in this room combined.
He almost fists her hair. He reaches, but the bastard catches himself just before. Thank fuck for his jaw’s sake that he does. They’re not allowed to touch her in any way other than their cock in her cunt and their hands on her hips. No kissing, no extracurriculars, so to speak. That’s the rule she proposed and the one that drew me to her. If only she knew who I was and what she was signing up for . . .
“You like that, my little whore?” I murmur, my stiff cock pressing against the zipper of my suit pants.
“Yes Sir,” she barely manages as he fucks her harder. His blunt nails dig into her lush hips as he searches for his release, and a possessiveness I’ve never felt before comes over me as she calls out my name. It’s nearly strangled, wrapped up in her pleasure.
My lips find hers, kissing and nipping as my heart races faster. Our touch is short-lived as she braces herself, both hands gripping the arm of the warm brown leather sofa. The scents of whiskey and cigars linger, even if the poker cards are scattered across the floor.
We’ve done this more than a dozen times. Poker nights with my business acquaintances. She enjoys their touch, and I enjoy watching. She’s sensitized by the time I bring her to my room, cuff her to my bed, and punish her.
The other night, she came from my simply blowing on her cunt. That’s how high this gets her.
“Gabe!” She cries out my name, reaching up as the men change behind her. She reaches for me, her small fist grabbing my shirt.
My little submissive, being so fucking inappropriate in front of our guests. It takes everything in me not to shove him aside and take her right then and there.
Her half-lidded eyes find mine and then close in utter rapture before she forces them open. That possessiveness rocks through me again, refusing to be ignored. I watch her as she comes on his cock, her lips parted and lust written in her expression. Her hand tightens on mine in a desperate attempt to keep me close.
If only she knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I was moving an inch from her. Every muscle is coiled, adrenaline surging through my veins. She’s mine. Mine to enjoy, mine to share, mine to cherish.
“Gabriel,” she cries, pleasure rocking through her, and I can’t take it anymore.
That was years and years ago, but the memory stays with me, nearly hauntingly. I wonder if it’s only once in a lifetime that you know the moment you fall in love.
In that moment, I knew I’d have done anything to keep her as mine. I’d have killed for her. I couldn’t have imagined the tragedy that would tear us apart. I had no idea I’d kill more than once for her. I never could have prepared for what was about to happen.
KIERSTEN
Present Day
The keys jingle in the darkened alley as a chill blows by. It makes logical sense that on the anniversary of the darkest day of my life, I’d feel a prickle creep up the back of my neck. The metal bites into my hand as I grip the keys harder and turn, expecting to see someone watching me. There’s no one, though. Not a soul exists beyond myself, and I remind myself that it’s only the nerves. It’s only the memories that haunt me.
Memories that take me back to another life. Another name, even. Back to when I was only Kiersten, a naive submissive who couldn’t have prepared for what fate would do to me. Long before I was ever Madam Lynn.
It’s only my past that I’ll never outrun. With a steadying breath, I open the heavy side door to Club X.
As I step into the warm hall, with my purse in the crook of my arm and the large hot coffee in my right hand, sin disguised as luxury greets me. An easy smile slips onto my lips. This place is my escape, my livelihood, my sanctuary from everything that waits for me outside these doors.
Warmth greets me as I take in the foyer and lobby on my right and the darkened ballroom on my left.
The click of my heels is muted as I step onto the thick, dark red carpeted floors. Club X is a fantasy come to life and a gateway to another world. One so many people will never know exists, let alone experience. Every detail is meticulous and exudes luxury. The golden sconces give a decadent glow to the place as I flick the light switch on. The light barely reaches the high ceilings, by design, to add to the feel of a fantasy.
As I pass the dining room, I take a moment to ensure the tables were set last night. In only a handful of hours, this room will be filled with rich men, easily poured alcohol, and the finest dining served by white-gloved waiters.
Beyond the velvet-covered booths, the thick red curtains that guard the stage in the back will remain closed today.
The next auction hasn’t been announced, but they all know it’s coming.
Wealth and anonymity are required for members who bid at the auction.
Curiosity and willingness are a must from the women who are curated and invited to partake in these exclusive events. It’s a lust-filled fever dream for many, an irresistible temptation for others, and a potentially life-altering opportunity for all involved.
It’s an honor and a privilege and yet . . . a constant reminder for me. Taking the iron spiral staircase up to the second floor to my office, I remember a time when all of this was only a dream to me. Something I thought would lessen the pain of my wounds, in a way. Stopping short of my office door, I lean my back against the wall and take in a deep, steadying breath.
Today will always be a heavy date, but reminders of him are everywhere in this place, and recently, more often than not, I’ve felt as if maybe, after so many years, it’s time to let go. It’s been so long, and although I deal in the world of fantasy, I don’t want to live in one myself.
Shaking off the nerves, I open up the door and go about my tasks as if it’s any other day. My purse and tweed coat are hung on the metal hooks in the closet, and my golden heels click on the white-washed wooden floors of the office. Apart from the blush wingback chair, the blood-red velvet curtains that line the back wall, and a pale pink damask wallpaper on the right side, everything in my office is a bright white. Even the roses are white in their crystal vase. They’re delivered weekly, and the soft scent carries through the long days.
My carved wooden desk is new. It’s curved, with two clear, yet comfortable chairs that cost a fortune. They’re modern and transparent. Every inch of this place looks and feels expensive. And that’s because it is.
My typical deep red attire, in the form of cashmere dresses and silk blouses tailored just for me, fits right at home with the image of femininity yet confidence and power. Today, though, my black V-neck dress stands apart from the softness of my office.