Chapter 11
Gen
Ican’t conceivably stay away from the club much longer.
It’s my fucking club, for fuck’s sake. I refuse to be deterred by the possibility of running into some random member. It is, quite frankly, ridiculous.
Besides, I need an orgasm at the hands of someone else.
I’m burning up for it. That date last week with a commodities trader didn’t extend beyond a quick dinner at Zuma.
In my haste to wrap things up, I even turned down their caramel chocolate fondant, which is unheard of.
I almost considered faking a goodbye and ducking back into the restaurant for dessert, but decided against it.
Somebody else has been eating a whole lot of dessert, by the sounds of it. My spies—okay, Belle and Maddy—tell me the Big Bad Wolff has a thing for eating pussy. He’s been going down left, right and centre, bestowing petites morts among Alchemy’s clientele with admirable largesse.
Rapacious is how Belle described his behaviour to me the other day when she popped into the office after work and Rafe was otherwise engaged. It’s an uncomfortably vivid description, and one that’s stuck in my head.
Maddy, who spotted him earlier this week and got a brief view of him in action, as it were, before Zach dragged her off to a room and presumably fucked her senseless, told me she could sense his magnetism from across the room.
‘He’s got that kind of power you can’t miss,’ she said. ‘You know? Like you just want to put yourself in his hands and let him do whatever he wants with you because you know it’ll be so fucking good.’
I grimaced, because that was distinctly unhelpful.
‘The hosts and clients are lining up for him,’ she continued gleefully. ‘Like, literally. There were a few of them bent over the Banquette for him the other night.’
The Banquette was more of a conveniently waist-high ottoman, but the nickname had stuck because the double entendre of bonk-ette was too good not to use.
Evil girl. If she was trying to goad me, it worked.
Which is why I find myself at Alchemy tonight, enjoying a coupe of champagne with the team at one of the low tables dotted around the outer area of the bar.
‘You look so fucking hot, babes,’ Maddy tells me, patting my knee.
I know I look good. I’m in a new dress that I treated myself to in the Harrods Superbrands section on Saturday, when I was attempting to get my kicks from shopping instead of orgasms. It’s an Alexander McQueen number that’s a feat of engineering.
Thin straps. Black lace over an opaque nude silk slip.
Corsetry that has my tits on a platter and makes my figure look more hourglass than I may ever have achieved.
I’ve been working out more lately, toning up, and I can feel the difference.
My hair’s swept up in an artfully messy chignon, and my heels are high and patent.
I’m perfectly put together, and I’m ready to be undone by someone skilful and appropriately appreciative.
‘Thank you, darling,’ I say, patting her hand. She’s my biggest cheerleader, and she’s a sweetie.
‘We should have a threesome with Gen,’ she tells Zach. ‘Look how bloody gorgeous she is.’
The others hoot with laughter, and Zach rolls his eyes. I’m pretty sure he lives in a constant state of adoration, amusement and total bewilderment when it comes to Maddy.
‘Do I need to put you over my knee and explain monogamy again?’ he asks with a glint in his eye.
‘Um, pretty much, yes,’ she says, fluttering her eyelashes at him.
‘Thanks but no thanks,’ I tell her. ‘She’s all yours, Zach.’
I don’t really do women. And, while I may have got naked and messed around with both Rafe and Cal on one particularly crazy evening in the early days of the club, it’s something I drew a line under right after.
Those three guys are my best mates. Fucking them is of no interest to me.
Maddy’s eyes widen and she squeezes my knee.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Behind you,’ she hisses, her eyes darting to my face and over my shoulder again in a way that’s anything but discreet. ‘One decidedly vulpine billionaire.’
Oh, buggery shit.
I despise the roll of excitement that hits me right alongside the irritation at the knowledge that Anton Wolff is in the house.
The Big Bad Wolff has come out to play.
That’s the thing about Alchemy. It’s so in your face.
There’s no pussyfooting around and wondering if someone you spot in the bar area may be available.
Interested in taking things further. If they’re here, they’re here for sex.
Which is usually a good thing, but which can, at times, be an exceptionally bad thing.
Not that it’s of any interest to me. I don’t care if he’s here, or who he puts his hands on, as long as it’s not me. I raise my coupe to my lips and take a sip of perfect effervescence.
A second later, predictable as clockwork, I hear my own name. It sounds like a command, and that plain pisses me off. I dislike the fact that my entire body tenses at the sound, but I make sure to arrange my features into my preferred impassive mask before I crane my head around and up.
‘Mr Wolff.’ I shoot him my most obviously fake, tight smile. ‘How delightful.’
‘We’ve talked about this,’ he says, a smile playing on his lips.
My smile tightens. ‘Anton,’ I concede.
‘Better,’ he says. He’s indecently attractive in a pristine white shirt and black trousers, the cut of both of which is impeccable.
From my position on a low stool, his size is even more apparent.
The sheer force of his physical presence is such that he seems to loom over me when he is, in fact, standing a respectable distance away.
This is a man who knows how to take up space and embraces that advantage.
I could learn a thing or two from him.
He has a tumbler of whisky in his hand, and the flash of his cufflink as he tilts the glass in an unspoken toast makes me wonder what he does when he’s getting ready to eat a woman.
Does he take the cufflinks off?
Roll those pristine white sleeves up?
Flex forearms that I just know are strong? Muscular? Perfectly tanned and hairy?
‘Can I beg a minute of your time?’ he asks.
I sigh inwardly. ‘Of course,’ I say, and I stand, conscious that all my so-called friends are watching this little exchange avidly.
Disloyal dicks.
As I round my low stool to face him, his gaze sweeps appreciatively down my body.
‘Are you still sticking with your no-touching-each-other rule?’ he asks in a low, intimate voice.
‘I am,’ I say, my voice a little less confident than I’d like. But it seems he gets the message, because he nods and rakes a hand through his thick, dark hair.
‘Understood. It’s a shame, though. You look perfectly lovely tonight.’
His brown eyes search my face for a reaction as he says it. I straighten my shoulders, determined to hold firm in the wake of an unexpectedly old-fashioned compliment. Coming from the guy who wondered aloud how many cocks I could take in one night last time I saw him, it’s disarming.
I’m sure disarming people is one of the many weapons he has in his arsenal.
‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’
‘I—no. I had a membership question. I’d like to recommend two of my friends for membership. Well, my chief of staff and one of my lawyers.’
He pauses.
I wait.
‘I was wondering if you could fast-track them,’ he says flatly.
‘Absolutely not,’ I say with a polite smile. ‘But they’re welcome to apply, just like everyone else. Anything else I can help you with?’
He twists his mouth with what looks like rueful amusement. ‘Not unless you’d like to accompany me next door.’
‘I’m sure there’s no shortage of women who’d be delighted to accompany you next door,’ I tell him, my polite, phony smile still plastered on my face. I want it to look phony. I want him to know this is one battle he’s not going to win.
I just hope I can stay resolute and win the war, because, to quote his words, he, too, looks perfectly lovely tonight.
And I have a horrible feeling this could be a lengthy war of attrition.
We stand there, inches from each other, my face tilted up to his, and I think he’s going to take no for an answer and bid me good evening. His expression is serious. Thoughtful.
But the next words out of his mouth shock me.
‘Come and watch me, then.’