Chapter One
Carlo – Present Day
“It’s not a fucking lollipop. Suck, don’t lick,” I snap, with irritation bleeding through my voice.
The young woman kneeling before me doubles down on her efforts to satisfy me, but I’m fairly certain we both know she’ll fail miserably.
Her inability to stimulate me is not entirely her fault for several reasons.
Few would consider me small, and my piercings make oral sex awkward to negotiate for a small mouth—even for a more experienced partner.
Also, she isn’t my type. But perhaps most critically, fantasies of someone else are distracting me right now.
However, if she wants a job as a sex worker in my club, she needs to use more than her body to arouse me, no matter what the circumstances.
The men who come in here don’t mess around.
They’re paying a lot of money for the privilege of time with our staff.
The moment this pretty woman removed her dress, I could tell by her discomfort about exposing herself that she was too pure.
I told her as much, but she begged me to let her try, and the sadness in her eyes weakened my usual steely resolve.
Now though, it’s frustratingly obvious she’s just prolonging the agony.
I’m struggling to maintain a hard-on even though my dick’s in her mouth.
She’s sweet, but she doesn’t have the edge we need, and frankly, judging by her current performance, I’d seriously question whether she has the mental fortitude to be in a place like this at all.
I glance down to assess her. Her forlorn expression tells me she knows this won’t work, but her desperation for this position is tragic.
I tap her on the cheek and carefully withdraw myself from her mouth. People might consider me a sexual deviant, but I’m not cruel. If the metal in my dick hits a tooth, it hurts like a bastard.
“Thank you, you’re beautiful and very charismatic, but this side of the business won’t suit you.
You don’t have the edge we need.” Her gaze slides from my face, which only feeds my pity for her.
“You need nerves of steel for work like this, or it’ll mess with your head.
” Her chin drops with the ultimate confirmation that her application hasn’t been successful.
“Speak to Claudette about bar work. I know it’s not what you were hoping for, but it’s well paid and, more importantly, it’s safe.”
She nods, and after a moment, tilts her face up to me. A sad smile dances on her lips as I fasten my trousers.
Sensing my need to soften the blow, I take out my wallet and separate a few notes from the bundle before swiping my companion’s dress off the chair beside me.
Her lack of movement is a nod to how uneasy this experience is making her. So, I extend my hand to assist her in standing and pass her dress to her, giving her a moment to protect the last shreds of her modesty. Once dressed, I give her the banknotes. Which earns me a soft smile.
“Thank you for letting me try,” she chokes out.
“It was my pleasure to meet you,” I assure her, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Good evening.”
I spin on my heel and leave the room, making a beeline for my office.
At almost thirty-two, and with my list of sex kinks, I should never have agreed to take on that woman’s trial; she didn’t stand a chance. Claudette, the club’s floor manager, caught me in a rare moment of weakness following a few shit weeks.
The primary cause of my angst is the absence of my best friend and lover, Spencer.
He’s been out of the country on an extended trip with his wife and daughter for three months, but thankfully they returned home last night.
It’s Spencer’s fault I’m here at all. ‘Locked’ used to be his club, well, his and my business partner, Travis’.
I bought him out to help save his marriage about a year ago.
My relationship with Spencer doesn’t fit into a conventional box.
We’ve been best friends since primary school.
At six years old, my father sent me from Sicily to live with Spencer’s family in London.
Only five weeks later, his parents sent us off to boarding school, where we stayed in a cold dorm of eight boys, most of whom returned home for the weekends.
Though Spencer and I were left to prowl the long, lonely corridors with only each other and the masters for company, until the next vacation.
Having been each other’s world for so long, perhaps it isn’t surprising that in our teens we finally gave in to a pull neither of us could ignore.
The first time my cock hardened was for him. Back then, I assumed I was gay. Almost as a sexual experiment, I screwed a couple of women, but they never made me feel anything like Spencer did.
When I summoned the confidence to wrap my hand around him and watched his eyes roll back with desire, I knew I’d never willingly let him go.
To this day, Spencer insists he’s straight.
He hates that his body disagrees, and it’s his shame of our cravings that has tied knots in both our heads for a long time.
We keep our physical relationship quiet.
The only person alive who has always known the truth is his wife, Sophie. She knows everything.
In Spencer’s own way, he tried his best to support me after we lost Chess; he was my rock.
He held me at night, anchoring me in the present and allowing me to grieve privately.
But publicly, his shame would never permit our love to be visible.
This distance intensified my loss, and what made it worse was that I could never explain it to him, knowing the conversation would push him out of my reach for good.
Spencer wanted me; he needed me; I could feel it, but only as his dirty little secret.
A few years after Chess’ funeral, when Spencer got married, I tried to take back control of my loneliness by smothering my grief in sex clubs.
Screwing women who meant nothing to me only increased my bleakness, but the power they gave me inflated my ego.
It became a toxic habit. But none of the women I met could ever measure up to the one I lost.
More recently, Spencer and I have found a new rhythm.
He still doesn’t want to flaunt our sexual relationship, but thanks to his wife Sophie’s intervention he is at least back in my bed, occasionally, and he has lost some of his previous shame.
Spencer helps give me a purpose to keep going.
Without him and his family; I’d have nothing.
As I reach for the door handle to my office, more than ready for the solitude it will offer me, my phone rings. I glance at the screen to see Mama SAT emblazoned across it.
Mama’s been calling all week. It’s the seventh time tonight. Aware I can’t keep avoiding her, I groan before swiping to accept the call.
“Mama!”
“Carlo, where have you been?” She pronounces each word sharply. As usual, there’s no hint of warmth in her tone, even though I haven’t spoken to her since . . . I can’t even remember the last time we had any contact.
“Currently, I’m in London. Why the sudden interest in my whereabouts?” I demand sarcastically.
“In your club of whores, are you?” she spits venomously, and unused to the bite of her words. I flinch.
Fucking Duncan! Spencer’s father has always fed every detail of my life back to my parents.
Our upbringings didn’t teach Spencer and me to forge lasting family bonds with anyone aside from each other, but geography meant we spent more time with Spencer’s parents than my own.
Since being sent to England as a child, I reckon I could count on two hands the number of times I’ve seen my mama.
Therefore, her apparent long-distance interest in my life never fails to fascinate me, especially when she’s wanted nothing to do with me directly.
“What I do is none of your business. In the last thirty years, you’ve rarely shown any concern for me; let’s not pretend that’s ever likely to change.”
Her sharp gasp is enough to reprimand me for my cutting remark.
Mama and I might not be close, but my public school upbringing has taught me better than to be so candid, especially with a parent.
Recently though, I’m sick of being everyone’s lapdog.
I’ve distanced myself from my parents for years, and I have no intention of modifying that arrangement.
“I’m calling to ask you to come home,” she mutters, and even her muted words stop my mind from wandering.
The hesitancy in her tone alone tells me how much she didn’t want to make this call. Call me a nasty bastard, but I can’t resist the temptation to torment her further.
“Home, Mama? Where’s home?” I respond flippantly, doing my utmost to piss her off.
“Don’t be facetious with me,” she snaps.
Her reply raises a smile, pleased to have got the reaction I was aiming for.
“Your father’s dying. He wants to see you; it’s his last wish.”
Her words don’t surprise me. I heard about Papa’s illness months ago from Duncan.
Even though Papa and Duncan have been friends for years, I found it baffling that Duncan was so emotional when he broke the news of Papa’s diagnosis with stage four prostate cancer.
My father’s a selfish bastard who has never taken the time to consider anyone but himself.
I cut him out of my life purposefully, aware of how toxic my parents are.
“Why?” I probe.
“He’s your father; does he need a reason?” Her spiteful, aggressive tone is far from maternal.
I chuckle sarcastically.