Chapter 6
T he moment we step onto the second floor, the atmosphere shifts.
It’s warmer here, heavier, infused with something I can’t quite name. The lighting is low and decadent, casting everything in a golden glow. Wall sconces flicker against dark velvet drapes, the soft hum of music weaving through the murmur of voices.
Lust.
The second floor of The Masquerade. Where all desires begin.
I lift my glass of champagne, taking a slow sip as my gaze sweeps the room. The bubbles fizz against my tongue, but the light taste does nothing to soothe the anticipation curling low in my stomach.
Harper is already inside somewhere with Adriano, leaving me with the group of Ledger girls, each of us marked by our black masks and red wristbands. Look, don’t touch. That was the rule for tonight. A safety net. But as I take in my surroundings, I wonder if watching is all we’re supposed to be doing.
The first area we enter looks almost normal—like any high-end cocktail lounge in the city. Plush booths curve around intimate tables, expensive liquor gleaming in delicate glasses.
A woman reclines against a velvet chaise, her silk dress slipping down her shoulder, exposing a sliver of lace. A man beside her trails his fingertip up her bare thigh, his expression unreadable. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t stop him. If anything, she leans in.
I swallow hard, fingers tightening around my glass.
Further in, the setting becomes more deliberate. Designed.
Rooms framed by sheer curtains, alcoves lined with plush seating. The air hums with something electric, something slow and indulgent.
A blindfolded woman sits in a silk-draped chair, her posture relaxed as a man lifts her hand to his lips. He kisses the inside of her palm, then the tip of each finger, his movements slow, reverent. She shivers.
A velvet massage table sits a few steps away, a woman sprawled across it, her mask tilted slightly as strong hands work warm oil into her back. She exhales, tension melting beneath each firm press of his fingers.
My skin prickles.
This is what Lust is about. Not just sex, but sensation. The slow unraveling of control.
I take another sip of champagne, forcing my gaze forward.
Deeper in, the boundaries between spectator and participant blur. A couple sprawls across a chaise lounge, half-dressed, moving together in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. Another woman kneels between a man’s legs, her lips parting in a whisper I can’t hear.
My stomach tightens.
I expected this. I knew what kind of club The Masquerade was. But knowing and witnessing are two different things.
And the realization that unsettles me the most?
I like it.
The warmth pooling low in my stomach. The slow, insidious pulse between my legs.
Arousal. Curiosity. An aching kind of awareness I can’t ignore.
I exhale sharply, glancing at the other Ledger girls. Some of them are wide-eyed, others are scanning the room like they’re calculating possibilities.
The blonde beside me murmurs, “If this is just the second floor…” She trails off, taking a sip of her drink.
I nod absently.
Because if this is just Lust ?—
What happens when we go deeper into Hell?
* * *
B y the time I step off the elevator onto the fifth floor, Wrath, I am practically panting.
Not from exertion.
From something deeper.
From the slow, building heat that has been coiling inside me with every floor we’ve ascended.
Gluttony was indulgence. Decadence. The kind of pleasure meant to be consumed in excess.
Greed was power. Control. A floor where submission was currency and dominance was the only acceptable form of wealth.
Somewhere between the champagne, the lingering touches of bodies brushing past me, and the raw, unrestrained nature of Greed, I lost my group.
They were taking a tour of each floor so if I just keep going up, I’ll find them eventually.
The shift is immediate. The moment I step into the dim, red-lit expanse of Wrath, the space is not just darker. The very atmosphere is– heavier.
The walls are lined with black leather panels, the scent of it mixing with the sharp tang of something electric. Anticipation. Submission. Pain.
I hear it before I see it.
The unmistakable crack of impact.
The quiet, shuddering inhale of someone taking it.
Then another slap.
I round the first corner, heels clicking slowly against the polished floors, as I walk straight into something primal.
A large open area stretches before me, a raised platform in the center where a man and woman play out something rough and raw.
She’s bent over a padded bench, her wrists bound to the legs with deep red rope. A man stands behind her, shirtless, powerful, a leather paddle gripped in one firm hand.
He drags it down the curve of her back, his other hand smoothing over her flushed skin.
Then—
Crack.
The paddle meets her ass, a delicious moan spilling from her lips.
My stomach clenches. My thighs press together.
The room is filled with watchers.
Not just here.
Everywhere.
Some standing near the stage, some lounging in the dark corners, some sitting in chairs that line the perimeter of the floor. Their eyes track the movements of the participants.
And now…
Their eyes track me.
A slow chill rolls over my skin—not fear, not even close.
Awareness.
One by one, the patrons of Wrath turn their attention toward me, their gazes sliding over my body, assessing, lingering.
Not judgmental.
Desirous.
I don’t even realize how my posture has shifted, how my body has adjusted. Like my training.
Back straight. Shoulders rolled. Chin lifted.
My mask hides me, but it also marks me.
Black mask. Elite. Untouchable.
But the rabbit: Prey
I swallow, but I don’t lower my eyes.
Instead, I let them look.
I just became the ultimate forbidden fruit, and they all want to take a bite but none of them can.
My nipples tighten against the soft fabric of my dress. Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading between my thighs, soaking through the lace of my panties.
They want me.
And God help me, I love it.
Something is emboldened within me, and I turn my back to them. My head is the last thing that turns as I slowly look away, heading back to the elevator. The predators here want to give chase and catch their prize but it’s against the rules.
Because the black masks belong to the Devil.
And it’s that thought that runs through my mind, some kind of possession taking me over that makes me push the button for the topmost floor. My wristband, the key that makes the floor light up as the elevator rises.
The doors glide open with a soft chime, and I step into The Devil’s Playground.
Heat wraps around me immediately, thick and cloying, laced with the scent of expensive cologne, leather, and sweat mingled with the unmistakable perfume of sin.
The room is massive, dimly lit, and thrumming with pleasure. Velvet seating. Mirrored walls reflecting bodies locked together in hypnotic, indulgent rhythms. The air hums with moans and whispered filth, a sensual symphony of surrender.
But none of it holds my attention.
Not when he’s right in front of me.
A woman is stretched out, arms pinned above her head, legs spread wide and bound with sleek black cuffs. She’s laying on a contraption, suspending her in a work of wicked engineering, floating midair, held up by chains that disappear into the darkness above.
She’s helpless. Powerless.
And at the mercy of the man between her legs.
The Devil himself.
His face is hidden, buried between her thighs as he devours her.
The only thing I can see is the mask resting on top of his head.
Sculpted black. Curling horns.
It’s him.
Not just a title. Not just a whispered legend. The Devil is real.
A shiver rolls down my spine as his hands flex, fingers digging into her thighs as he holds her open. I watch, rooted to the spot as his head moves, the slick sound of his tongue stroking into her making my own thighs clench.
Her moans rise, a breathless, broken wail as she shatters around his mouth.
But he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t even pause.
The second orgasm crashes into her too quickly, too forcefully, and she thrashes, her restraints rattling with each desperate cry.
“Green!” she gasps. “Green!”
She’s begging for more.
And fuck, he gives it to her.
One of his hands slides between her legs.
I feel it. I swear to God, I feel the moment his fingers push inside her because my clit throbs in response. My panties are soaked. My breath is locked in my throat, champagne flute forgotten in my grip.
It’s a spell. A fucking curse.
I can’t look away.
Won’t look away.
Then, he lifts his head, mask sliding back into place, hiding his face from me.
My stomach clenches.
The mask. His mask. The one I’ve heard whispers about. The one the club reveres.
The Devil’s mask.
And the moment his dark gaze locks onto mine, I whimper.
His tongue sweeps over his lower lip, tasting the woman on his mouth. His hand drops to the bulge in his pants, gripping himself through the black leather.
God, I might come just from watching this.
Three fingers dip into his mouth as he licks himself clean and my lips part.
Heat burns through me, from the tips of my ears to the insides of my thighs.
He steps aside, pressing a button on the platform’s frame, lowering the bound woman to the level of his cock.
He’s going to fuck her.
And I’ve never wanted to switch places with someone more in my life.
Slowly, deliberately, he unzips himself. The motion is unhurried, taunting, revealing the barest glimpse of tanned skin, dark curls at the base of his shaft.
I don’t realize I’m staring until his fingers wrap around his dick, stroking once, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he tightens his grip.
Something in my chest flutters.
A dark thrill. A sick longing.
He knows I’m watching. Wants me to watch.
And fuck, I do.
The flash of gold catches my eye first. A foil-wrapped condom in his other hand.
He tears the corner open with his teeth, turning slightly to spit the piece onto the floor, and then—without breaking eye contact—he rolls it down the length of his cock.
I squeeze my thighs together. Hard.
He presses a hand to the woman’s stomach, his fingers dragging upward, stroking between the valley of her breasts. He cups one, squeezing possessively before pinching her nipple between two fingers, rolling it until she gasps.
Then he grips her shoulder and positions his cock at her entrance.
And slams into her.
A choked sound leaves my throat.
His stomach flexes with each roll of his hips, his thrusts powerful and unrelenting, using the motion of the suspended frame to push deeper, harder.
I think I might be shaking.
His eyes never leave mine.
She gasps out a name and I wonder if it’s his. It’s not.
A man steps forward, responding to her call. He approaches, adjusting the woman’s headrest, tipping it back until her mouth is open, waiting.
The new man pulls out his cock, and she takes him eagerly.
The Devil watches me as he fucks her, as she moans around the other man’s cock, as the two of them work her over in perfect, ruthless synchronization.
“There you are!”
I nearly jump at the sound of Eve’s voice, the world snapping back into focus.
My skin is on fire , my pulse frantic, my panties–fucking ruined.
“We’ve got to get you newbies home before bedtime.”
Eve is speaking to the other recruits, but I barely register it.
Because when I turn back— he’s still looking at me.
The elevator chimes, signaling our departure, but I can’t move .
Even as I step backward into the rising lift, as the doors close, I don’t break eye contact.
Neither does he.
And right before the doors fully seal?—
He smirks.