21. Get the Fuck Out
GET THE FUCK OUT
Wes
I make it to Hellfire late Friday night. The party is well on its way in the ballroom with three of the five Lords here for the weekend.
I wouldn’t have come back if it weren’t for Fable.
My London lady hit me up twice for sex while I was in town.
We went out, but again, I couldn’t bring myself to fuck her.
I thought the ocean between me and Fable would make it easier to get my release.
The only pleasure I found was with my own damn hand to images of Fable—that dark hair covering my pillow, those lips begging me to give her another orgasm.
That is my goal tonight. My mission. I’m done waiting. The chemistry between us has me in knots like a sixteen-year-old desperate to stick his cock in the nearest pussy. I can’t deny I like the rush, but I hate the frustration that comes with it.
My suitcase is in my room when I reach it, thanks to Jace.
I shower and change into black pants and a black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up.
My red jacket hangs from my desk chair. I put it there while I debated whether to join the party or to summon Fable to my room.
Not my private suite. I would never do that.
We use guest rooms for a reason. Our personal belongings are in these massive rooms, complete with an office and minibar.
I could lock the doors to the office. The black, grey, and white sleek design is the opposite of the traditional, stuffy style I grew up with at Hale Manor, and reveals nothing about me, other than I like modern organization.
I’m a man of few personal knick-knacks. Anything sentimental I keep at my penthouse in the Flatiron District.
A famous billionaire entrepreneur owns the apartment below me.
My father liked to brag about that. He bought the penthouse over a decade ago.
It was one of the first things I stole from him.
How scared he was when I showed him the videos I acquired of his sordid parties, including one of him bare-arsed plowing into a prominent nobleman.
The thought of it getting out and staining his reputation was all it took for the man to sign everything over to me.
I let him keep a few things for appearances’ sake, but he died with nothing, and the memory of losing it all to the son he cut off and left for dead.
My solicitor says Mum is waiting for me to grant her part of the estate.
Now that her husband is six feet under, she wants to keep her allowance and reclaim Hale Manor.
Why she thinks I’d give her anything is beyond me.
Until I make up my mind to either burn it down or turn it into a homeless shelter—whichever makes my father roll over in his grave the most—I’m avoiding the place.
Sinclair: Heard you’re here. Will you be joining the party? You might want to.
Phones aren’t permitted in Hellfire. They get collected up on arrival and returned when guests leave.
Staff must keep their phones in Camila’s office or their rooms. Lords, out of respect, follow the rules too.
If Sinclair is texting, he left the party to use his phone.
Either he’s bored or he doesn’t like someone here.
Me: I haven’t decided if I’m joining.
Sinclair: Then you don’t mind that your pick of the litter is dancing with a red feather in her wig.
What the fuck? I snag my jacket and mask and make it downstairs in no time at all. My hair isn’t gelled to help conceal my identity, but my mask is big and hides enough. I’m not about to turn around and fix it. Fable and I have an agreement.
I stalk through the doors to the ballroom. The smaller crowd makes it easier to spot the staff in their standard costumes, but I don’t see a tiny server anywhere. Nefertiti looks over from the bar where she’s with Cruz and waves me over. I go to get answers.
As soon as I approach, she hands me a drink. “Here. You look like you need this.”
I slam the Amaretto Old Fashioned, my drink of choice, and bend to her ear, “Where’s Fable?”
She runs her hand through my hair in the back and pulls me toward her neck. “Forget the newbie. She isn’t interested in anything exclusive. She told me last weekend when I hired her.”
What! “Has she been with anyone while I’ve been gone?”
She turns her head and brushes her lips across my neck. “A few guests.”
“A few?” I shout and gain the attention of several sets of eyes.
“Darling, you’re making a scene,” Camila says in my ear as if we’re making out. “How about another drink?”
She knows I declared Fable off-limits and was supposed to not only keep her here but keep her away from other men. The fact that she let this happen, maybe even encouraged it, leaves a stale taste in my mouth.
I chuckle and grip Camila by the throat, tugging her back against me. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type, but whatever game you're playing with Fable, it ends now. Understand?”
I let her go and shove away in search of Fable.
Another server, a tall raven-haired one with chocolate skin and a peacock mask, offers me a drink from her tray.
I’m about to wave her off when she says, “She’s in the Gilded Cage.
She’s a bit drunk and has never partied like this in her life. Please don’t judge her.”
This woman cares for Fable. It must be Noah. And Fable partying without it being brought to my attention confirms what I surmised. Camila is jealous and setting Fable up for failure—or to piss me off.
I march to the Gilded Cage and step through the mirror. Three guests in gold Greek god masks and black suits watch from the curved couch as Fable dances on the pole-platform-table in the center of the room.
My inner demon fumes. It’s all I can do not to haul her over my shoulder and carry her away.
Instead, I take a deep breath and shift to the side until the men see me.
My red jacket gives me away as one of the Lords.
They know to obey. One of them looks over.
Since they wouldn’t hear me over the music, I mouth, “Get the fuck out,” and hitch my thumb at the door.
To make sure he understands how serious I am, I slam a fist into my palm.
He taps the guy next to him on the shoulder and instructs him to leave. They stand and tell the third guest, who, from the way he’s staring, is eye-fucking Fable from behind his mask.
The two men leave, but the third rises slowly and walks to me with an arrogant swagger. Fable must have her eyes closed because she’s still dancing. For a girl who never parties, she doesn’t have a problem working that pole.
The mask of Zeus stares at me from about five inches below. “It’s okay. She’s accepted my proposition.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“We haven’t worked it out yet.”
“Leave now while you still have teeth.” I crack my knuckles.
The guest’s mouth drops open, then he’s racing out of the room.
I follow him and get the attention of the security guard posted between this mirror and the next.
“Yes, sir?” he asks from behind his gold and black mask.
“Don’t let anyone in this room.” I point to the Gilded Cage. “And give me your extra mask.” They always keep a spare in case something happens to them or a guest needs one.
He unhooks it from his belt and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I enter the Gilded Cage and switch out my mask, leaving the serpent and my red jacket on the table near the entrance. You can’t see into the rooms from the outside. Three mirrors are strategically placed to reflect the ballroom and give the illusion it’s one solid surface.
I circle a still dancing Fable, her moves sensual and erotic, matching the haunting song. A red feather sticks out of her wig. I pluck it free and stuff it in my pocket. What was my little angel doing in here with three men?
I sit in front of her, my legs spread wide, and recline with my arms resting on the back cushions, watching my vixen as she makes love to the pole. She presses her ass against the gold rod, her back arched, one hand above her head. It’s all I can do not to grab her or whip out my dick and jerk off.
She must notice the three guys are gone, because she pauses and glances around. It’s just the two of us. She peers over her shoulder at the entrance, then at me again, wobbly in her heels now that she’s no longer holding the pole.
I point at it and circle my finger in the air for her to keep dancing.
The song changes to one with an edgier, rock vibe. She stands there like she’s debating to run away, then clutches the pole and drops low before slowly gliding her body up the gold rod as she rolls her hips.
It’s sexy as fuck, and my cock is instantly hard. Anger soars inside me, knowing those three tossers were getting off on watching her before I got here. Has she been with one of them? Did she plan to be with the arrogant arse who tried to stake a claim on her?
My fingers ball into tight fists. If she’d agree, I’d have a wank with her watching.
Last weekend, I could have. Now, I’m certain Camila put something in her head.
It’s the only way she would go against what we agreed—especially after her message of apology for me—delivered to me unbeknownst to her—at the lake garden.
The only way the demon in me will calm down is if I fight or fuck. Fighting would only lead to death tonight, and that’s bad for business. Fucking it is.
I stand just as Fable’s heel slips off the small table and catch her at the waist. She weighs as much as a pillow. I set her back on the platform. It puts her head at my level. We stare through mesh at each other, my big hands still at her tiny waist, then she’s kissing me.
I let her, enjoying the feel of her warm, pliant lips, but irritated she would kiss just anyone so freely.
She tastes tart and sweet like she’s been downing Amaretto sours.
The flavor turns me on. The sweet liquor is a favorite of mine when mixed with Rye Whiskey.
Instead of drinking her in, I push her back until she’s upright on steady legs.
“How many men have you kissed tonight?” I demand.