Chapter 23
23
Amelia
Lunch with Gage’s family is an experience unlike any meal I’ve had with my family. I’m used to polite conversation, no laughter, and three adults doing their best to get out of there as soon as possible. My brothers don’t even bother bringing their personalities. My mother would make them put their fun away.
The Black family? Totally different. It’s five sons, three daughters-in-law, and the kind of energy that feels like a family reunion crossed with a roast battle. The men rib each other like it’s a competitive sport. The women hand out sass like party favors.
Gage’s mom, Ingrid, clearly lives for it. She floats between conversations, the queen surveying her rowdy kingdom, refilling wine glasses, ensuring everyone has enough to eat, and occasionally joining the banter with a line that absolutely hits.
And then there’s Gage’s dad. Edmund is stoic, reserved, and watching from a distance. But every now and then, when the teasing gets particularly savage or the laughter too loud to ignore, I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
And Gage? He’s in his element. Settled back like he owns the whole table, casually tossing out dry one-liners that land harder than half the roast jokes flying across the room. He doesn’t dominate the spotlight. He simply waits for the moment and delivers. It’s smooth, low-effort hell-raising from him, and I kind of love that for him.
There’s a calm confidence to the way he moves through it all, hand on my thigh under the table, whiskey glass in the other, looking like he was born to banter and breed alpha genes at the same time.
By the time dessert hits the table, I’m full. Like need-to-be-horizontal-and-reflect-on-my-life-choices full. But when Ingrid offers her lemon tart, I smile and say yes. Automatically. Instinctively. Like I was trained.
Because I was.
Both my mother and James’s mother made it abundantly clear, repeatedly and aggressively, that refusing something offered to you, especially food, is rude. Not mildly impolite. Character-definingly offensive . The kind of social misstep that would land me in a lecture on grace and gratitude and “how it looks.”
So, even now, in a warm, happy house with people laughing around the table, I still feel the prompt to “be good.” I say yes without thought.
Which is how I end up sitting here, internally negotiating with my stomach while preparing to inhale a tart I do not have room for.
Gage’s hand comes to my thigh while I’m in the middle of bargaining with my digestive system, and when I glance at him, he’s watching me with that look. The one that says he sees things I didn’t realize I was revealing.
“You don’t have to eat it,” he murmurs so only I can hear. “My mom won’t care.”
My throat tightens. Just a little. Because of course he noticed.
I force a light smile, trying to keep my walls in place. Which is pointless when I’ve got Gage watching me so closely. He’ll see right through it. And he’ll push the point. This man doesn’t do polite lies.
So, I give up and hand him my honesty. “Yeah, but if I don’t eat it, I might internally combust. If I do eat it, I might also combust. Either way, we’re dealing with an emotional lemon situation.”
His mouth quirks, and then, then , he leans right in, and I know that look. That’s not “pass the sugar”, that’s “I’m about to make you feral.” His voice is full gravel when he says, “So you’ll stuff yourself for my mother, but when I want to stuff you with my cock, you demand carb-recovery time?” His lips ghost over mine, smug. “Good to know where I rank, Princess.”
I just shake my head at him as he leans back, throws his arm behind me like he pays rent there, and gives me that smug sex god look—full “I know your panty situation without asking” energy, and zero remorse.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if your mother comes at me with disappointed eyes, I’m making you fake a medical emergency. The dramatic kind.”
He’s amused, but he doesn’t get to answer because Ethan, who’s sitting on my other side, grins at me and says, “So, how did my brother convince such a smart woman to give him a shot? Did he charm you with that emotionally unavailable, brooding-bad-boy thing he does, or are you in an actual hostage situation here?”
I laugh, and my hand goes straight to Gage’s thigh like it’s got a mind of its own. What Ethan said is funny, and I know it’s his way of breaking the ice some more with me, using the good- natured ribbing tactic these brothers have mastered, but I’m feeling all kinds of “he’s mine, don’t hurt him.”
And suddenly, all eyes are on me.
So, naturally, my brain forgets how to exist as an intelligent woman and throws out, “I thought I was signing up for zaddy charm and some decent dinners. Instead, I got surprise feelings and a man who thinks my boobs are public domain.”
A beat of silence follows.
I feel like I just said boobs in church.
Abort, abort.
I want to dissolve into particles like Marin.
Then Ethan groans. “Jesus, not slang. Anything but fucking slang.” He looks at Gage like he’s side-eyeing him with dramatic brotherly disappointment, but there’s a grin in his eyes for me.
Kristen laughs into her wine.
Olivia’s laughing and looking at me all “yes, girl.”
Madeline thinks I’m hilarious.
Bradford, Hayden, and Callan? Also highly amused by the entire situation.
Ingrid’s beaming at me like she just adopted me.
Edmund even appears to be smiling.
And Gage? His hand slides up my thigh, his mouth grazing my ear like the man doesn’t care he’s seated next to his mother, and says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Not public. This is a very private collection.”
I am deceased.
And now would be a great time for him to fake a seizure. Or spontaneous man flu, the kind that kills after one sneeze. Or literally any excuse to get us out of here before I really do dissolve into Marin particles.
Madeline saves the day. She leans forward to look around Ethan at me, and says, “Just ignore my husband. He’s a grandpa and refuses to enter the twenty-first century. I personally try to send him as many texts that include as much slang as I can. And if you give me your phone number, you can too.”
Ethan grins again and extends his arm behind her before swooping in for a quick brush of their lips.
“Yes,” Olivia says, pulling out her cell. “We should add you to the group chat.” She passes her phone across to me. “Add yourself and I’ll put you in the chat.”
I key my number in and as I hand her phone back, I look at Ethan. “I know less than ten slang terms. You’re safe with me.”
“Thank Christ,” he says.
Ingrid stands and meets my gaze with a smile. “I’m so glad you came today, Amelia.” Then, she just begins clearing the dining table like she didn’t just give me something James’s parents never gave me.
Gage, Callan, and Ethan get up to help their mom while Edmund, Bradford, and Hayden disappear down the hall like there’s a secret portal that will take them somewhere very fun. Meanwhile, I’m pulled over to the couch with the girls, and within sixty seconds, I’ve learned two things: one, these women are emotionally invested in a dating reality show I’ve never heard of, and two, the latest episode sparked a very serious conversation about things you’d murder your man for.
You know, casual Saturday things we talk about.
“What would you kill Bradford for?” Oliva asks Kristen.
“Eating my strawberry jam.”
She’s not even joking, and I can’t stop myself from laughing. I hold up my hands in defense. “I’m not laughing about the jam. I’m laughing at how serious you are.”
“Oh, that’s at the top of a very long list,” she says, very straight-faced. “And he knows it.”
“The key to a long marriage.” Olivia nods, wisely, like they’re passing down ancient secrets.
“How about you, Liv?” Madeline asks.
“Calling anything I do ‘cute’ when I’m mid-rage.”
The girls all nod in solemn agreement like she just dropped gospel.
Olivia takes a sip of wine. “Callan does it all the time. And all I’m thinking is, ‘my death glare is not a fucking vibe , Callan.’”
“Will there be violence to go along with that?” Kristen asks. “Because I’ve got ideas.”
“I see you’ve thought about this topic a lot, Kris,” Olivia says. “And I fully support that.”
I settle into the couch. I think I’m going to like these girls.
Kristen looks at Madeline. “Okay, spill, and if you say anything about still being in your honeymoon phase, I will pick something off my violence list and harm you with it. Honeymoons are no excuse for forgetting your female rage.”
Madeline laughs. “Oh, I have things. And I’ve just added ‘waking me up to ask me where something is’ to my list after he did that yesterday.”
Kristen gasps. “He did not .”
“Oh, he did,” Madeline confirms, deadpan. “And I told him that if he has to interrupt my sleep again, to find the salt , he will forfeit his life.”
“Oh my god,” Olivia says, trying to sound serious but losing it as a grin takes over. “ The salt ?”
“The. Salt.” Madeline gives us a slow headshake as if she’s just remembered it and still isn’t over it.
We’re all laughing now, the wine is flowing, and all I can think is: how did I survive this long without a group like this? Why didn’t I know this kind of friendship existed?
“Your turn, Amelia.” Kristen points at me like I’ve just been chosen to testify in the court of justified girlfriend vengeance.
I don’t even have to think about it. “Saying ‘I don’t really get why you need so many throw pillows.’”
Kristen gasps again, like I just spoke a universal truth. “Violence is required. There’s no other option when a man says something that dumb to a woman.”
“Right?” I throw my hands up. “It’s like, ‘oh I’m sorry, do you also not understand joy ?’”
Olivia laughs and then raises her glass. “Cheers to that. But wait. Gage said that to you? Or another guy?”
“Gage. Just the other day.”
She’s horrified. “I taught him better than that. Seriously, we need an intervention before he screws this up with you. I like you too much for that to happen.”
“I’ll bring the violence list,” Kristen offers, very seriously, and honestly, I’m 79% sure she’s not kidding.
Olivia gets a wicked glint in her eye. “We don’t need a list for Gage. All we have to do is pull out the board games.”
Kristen cackles. “True.”
I blink. “Gage doesn’t like board games?”
“Hates them,” Olivia says. “Though he always ends up having a good time. So, if he pisses you off, just pull one out and tell him you wanna play.”
I nod, filing that away like I’ve just been given nuclear codes. “Good to know. Passive-Aggressive Monopoly is now my version of couples therapy.”
Laughter explodes around me just as Gage walks into the room, eyebrows raised at what he’s walking into.
“Do I even want to know?” he asks.
“Throw pillows, Gage.” Olivia gives him a press of her lips and a shake of her head. “Every bed needs them.”
His eyes come to me. “Not mine. I’m not there for the fucking pillows.”
His family join us, and the conversation shifts from throw pillows to Ethan and Maddie’s honeymoon. Which is great timing, since Gage has a Round Two, Princess look in his eyes, and I was three seconds away from sexually malfunctioning in public.
We spend another hour with his family and while everyone’s getting ready to leave, Olivia scrolls her phone and murmurs, “Shit.” Then, looking up at Gage, she hands him her phone and says, “This was just posted.”
His expression reveals nothing while he reads and still offers nothing when he shows it to Bradford. Neither look as fazed by whatever they’re reading as Olivia.
She glances between them. “Are you going to do anything about it?”
Gage eyes his brother. “If you want me to, I will. But as far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a fuck about it.”
“It shouldn’t affect me,” Bradford says. “I’ll run it by the team.”
Gage nods, and it seems, that’s that.
And then we’re all saying goodbye, and I get swept up in that. Then, once Gage gets me back to his place, I get swept up in him. So, it’s not until my brother texts me later that night that I remember the suspense of what Gage had said he didn’t give a fuck about.
We’re getting ready for bed, and I’ve just walked into Gage’s bathroom to show him a photo on my phone of our girls that I snapped during the week at school pickup when Tim’s texts come through. I rest my hip against the counter to read them while Gage alternates between brushing his teeth and eye-fucking my boobs.
Tim:
YOU’VE BEEN HOLDING OUT ON US.
He sends a link to an Instagram post.
Tim:
Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.
Tim:
You forgot to tell us your new boyfriend is a full-blown sex overlord.
Tim:
He owns five sex clubs. FIVE!
Tim:
That’s not a red flag. That’s a goddamn parade and I am WAVING.
Tim:
Okay, but real talk. Gage gives “has a custom-built throne in the VIP dungeon” vibes.
Tim:
Leather. Shadow lighting. Only answers to “Sir.”
Tim:
Or maybe he’s more “I wear suits while I spank you and quote business stats” energy.
Tim:
I swear if one of those clubs doesn’t have a themed night called “Submit & Sip”, I’m starting a petition.
Tim:
And please confirm or deny if there’s a loyalty card because I WILL become a platinum member. Ten orgasms and the eleventh one’s free.
Tim:
You’ve been walking around with a sex-club-grade dick and didn’t even tell your favorite sibling? MA’AM.
Tim:
I provide love. Emotional support memes. Actual childcare. And you’re out here being the First Lady of the kink economy without even a whisper?
Tim:
This is a betrayal I may never recover from.
Tim:
Also, please advise which club is best for crashing. I will NOT behave. I might get us banned.
My head snaps up and I look at Gage as he flicks the faucet off. “You’re a sex overlord?” Shit. My brother will pay for that. “I mean, you own sex clubs?”
His lips twitch. “A sex overlord?”
“Ignore that. Tim said that. Not me.”
I tap the link Tim sent and am taken to an Instagram post.
@thetea_gasp
Bestie. Sit the eff down. @gageblack’s secret life just hit the TL and we are NOT okay. Apparently Mr. BSE? isn’t just serving CEO energy. He’s also serving sex club owner energy. Plural, bestie. FIVE. Count them. FIVE. Did ya’ll know? Because we sure as hell did not. Turns out our fave Mr. I Could Fix Him But I Don’t Want To billionaire owns a string of elite invite-only sex clubs in NYC and LA, and no, you can’t get in, don’t ask. And while we’re not judging (we stan a Filth Facilitator king), this could have major implications for another Black brother. You know, the one giving President? Let’s just say, the tea is HOT and the optics are SALACIOUS. Gage out here collecting safe words while his brother collects votes. Is this gonna tank @bradfordblack’s rep? Or is it giving “cool brother with a morally grey portfolio” energy? Jury’s out. #staytuned
“Amelia. Stop reading.”
I look at him again. “I’ve already read it all.”
“And?”
“And what? I’m just over here waiting for confirmation.”
He just watches me for a moment. Carefully. Like he’s trying to get a read on me. Then, he nods. “Yes, I own clubs.”
I blink.
Sex clubs.
Not bars. Not gyms. Not private member lounges where rich men drink $900 whiskey and pretend they have depth. Sex clubs . Plural.
Oh god.
I stare at him like I’ve never seen him before, even though he’s right there, shirtless, towel in hand, casually getting ready for bed in his low-hung grey sweatpants like he didn’t just drop the kind of information you should only tell a woman after she’s had at least five stiff drinks, not mid-boob ogle in the bathroom.
My brain tries to compute this. Fails.
Because what even is a sex club owner? Like, what does that mean in real life? Am I supposed to know all the ways a person can be tied up? Or how an orgy even works? Because I do not. I can’t even perform a good striptease. I once got tangled in my own bra straps mid-strip and almost dislocated a shoulder. Also, is there a code word for “I’ve made a terrible mistake and need to leave immediately”, or do you just scream and hope for the best?
And what kind of sex do you have to enjoy to even start one, let alone five?
It’s at this point that my panic sets in.
Because I know the kind of sex I have. Have had. Pre-Gage. It was fine. Solidly three-and-a-half-stars on a good night. A little spanking if the moon was in the right phase. Definitely not the kind of sex that inspires someone to open an entire franchise around it.
Am I vanilla?
Oh god, I’m vanilla.
He’s out here collecting safe words and my idea of wild is letting someone see me from behind with the lights on.
My face is burning now. I feel like my brain is filing a missing person’s report on my dignity. I try to play it cool, but I’m positive my internal scream is leaking through my pores.
This man has probably got a Red Room somewhere. I’ve got a pink drawer with two vibrators, and one is dead.
And I have so many questions .
What does he like? What does he want? What does he think I can give him?
I am not built for elite-level-kink. I’m built for Target lingerie and internally panicking mid-blowjob over whether I left the oven on.
“Okay.” I swallow, trying to shove my panic back down where it belongs. “So, real sex clubs? Like, where there’s dungeons and contracts and orgies, and someone hands you lube and a waiver at the welcome desk?”
He’s a mixture of amused and still watching me carefully.
“My clubs are the kind of place you go when you want to be watched, but not necessarily touched. We create a sensory atmosphere and curated experiences, not wild buffets of kink. It’s invite-only with an application process and background checks. NDAs required. No phones allowed. Full privacy. High-end luxury.”
“So, no kink?”
“Oh, there’s kink. But I think you’re picturing an underground horror show where someone hands you a whip and says, ‘Good luck.’ That’s not what this is.”
And yep. That’s exactly what I was picturing. A concrete basement with red lights, chains on the walls, and a trapdoor escape hatch. Maybe some yelling. Definitely emotional damage.
“Okay.”
I’m trying to find more words, but I think they’ve abandoned me in favor of processing the fact that this man, the one who touches me like I matter, holds space for every part of me, and might be ruining me for all other men, is into a whole other world of sex I never imagined for myself.
He built clubs. Branded the kink. Curated the orgasms. And then he looked at me, me , and decided I’m the perfect match for all that?
Gage moves in close and grips my waist. “Amelia. Talk to me. Ask me questions.”
I look up at him, and goodness , the care he’s looking at me with is exactly what I need right now. It reminds me that every step of the way, Gage has met me where I am. He’s given me what I’ve needed to feel safe opening up to this relationship. To him .
Wanting the physical connection, I curve my hand over his forearm. “You’re into kink?”
His shoulders drop the slightest bit. Like my touch, or maybe just that I asked a question, told him I’m not running.
“I wouldn’t say I’m into kink the way most people mean it. I don’t walk into a bedroom with a checklist or a lifestyle label. What I am is curious. I like to learn what makes someone tick. What lights them up. What makes them feel wanted. Safe. Unhinged, if that’s what they need.” His thumb brushes against my waist, slow, absent, like he’s not even thinking about it. Like touching me is just instinct now.
“If a woman needs control taken from her, I’ll take it. If she wants to be worshipped, I’ll drop to my knees. If she likes pain, I’m not her guy. That’s a hard limit for me. I won’t hurt someone to turn them on. But if you ask me what does it for me ? It’s watching. That’s always been my thing. Watching someone unravel because of what I’m doing to them, or what they’re doing for me. Knowing I’ve read them right, figured them out, or that I’m the only one who sees them that way...that’s the part that fucks with my head, in the best way.”
“Okay. So, you’ve explored. A lot.”
“Yes.”
“And been with a lot of women.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes more than one at a time.”
He nods.
“And you do that at your clubs?”
“I have. Not so much anymore, though.”
“Why not?”
“I guess...I didn’t want that kind of sex anymore. The kind with no emotional connection. Which was all I wanted after my divorce. I just wanted the pleasure, and I found that at the clubs. But it’s the emotional connection that’s my biggest turn on, so I stopped chasing something that wasn’t doing it for me anymore.” He pauses. “I stopped going to the clubs about four months ago. And I hadn’t had sex for three months before you.”
The space behind my ribs hushes, my breath folding in as my body tries to rearrange itself around everything he just gave me. It’s not just the words. It’s how he offered me the softest thing he owns. How he decided I should have this part of him.
My hand finds his and I move into him. Because when a man gives you the kind of truth most people keep locked away, you reach for him. You show him it’s safe.
“Thank you for telling me all that,” I say softly.
His eyes search mine, his arm now around me. “I don’t need anything but what you’re giving me.”
“Okay.” I want to leave it there. I really do. But I think even Gage knows by now that I don’t have that setting. “So, you don’t want to take me to one of your clubs?”
An amused smile ghosts over his face. “Now’s the time to say all the things on your mind, Princess. Do you want to go to one of my clubs? I’ve made it clear where I stand.”
“Well, no, not really.”
“Really, I did.” I think that ghost smile is turning into a smirk. “I just told you I’m a happy man fucking you the way I have been. I don’t think a guy can be any clearer than that.”
Okay. Now I’m internally rolling my eyes at his smug little “I’m right and you know it” attitude.
This man.
I’m not telling him he’s right.
“Just so we’re on the same page, my sex club overlord, when I had to stand on a stage as a teen and sing for people, my soul exited the building. Having crowds of people watch me do something is my idea of hell on earth. So, I’m not convinced hanging at a sex club is my scene. Not if it involves people watching me. However, if you were to build me my own private room at one of your clubs, and deck it out with all the kink you wanna explore with me, I’d be up for that.”
Because I can already see his filthy mind calculating just how fast he could build that room, I press myself really hard into him, get a little grindy, and say against his ear, “And I am absolutely going to want the recordings from that room too. I’m building myself my very own Private Gageflix Collection and I think we could call those reels The Smutcut .”
His hand immediately grips the back of my neck, which I’ve started calling “The Submission Switch.” Trademark pending. Dignity not included. And heaven help me, but when he does it like he is now, his hand not even bothering to slide under my hair, just grabbing it all like it belongs to him? Yeah, I’m ferally invested.
“Consider us on the same page,” he growls, all filth and dominance, and just like that, I’ve got a brand-new fetish. “And we’re getting started on your highlight reels tonight. You wanna rub yourself all over me like that, you’re getting face-down, ass-up, and I’m fucking the brat right out of you.”