Chapter 13
Gen
Iam officially unhinged.
I’ve agreed to watch a man fuck another woman in front of me, which is not that odd in itself, given we’re in Alchemy.
What’s odd is that I’ve had a physical reaction to this man that, much as it pains me to admit it, beats any curiosity or hunger I’ve felt for anyone in quite some time.
And what’s downright disturbing is that he’s propositioned me time and time again, and I’ve turned him down again and again because I’m too fucking scared of how he’d make me feel if I handed my body over to him, and now I have to watch some other woman take pleasure that should be mine and give him pleasure that should be mine to give.
I am so fucked up it’s not funny.
I didn’t miss the flash of surprise on his face when I conceded, before he covered it up with that trademark smirk.
He’s such an arrogant twat. That I have a golden, wondrous opportunity to wipe that smirk off his face is my only consolation. Getting him off my back once and for all is the only silver lining.
Pretending to be unmoved as he fucks some lucky bitch right in front of me will require harnessing all the poker-face skills I’ve honed over the years, but it’ll be worth the effort.
Worth the pain.
I’ll zone him out and pretend I’m watching cricket or some other boring-as-fuck sport.
That’s what I tell myself as I turn to the others. Anton’s already moved away towards the doors to The Playroom. ‘I’m going to put him in his place,’ I tell them, jerking a thumb over my shoulder.
Belle’s eyes are wide. Maddy looks positively thrilled, and I can tell she’s jumped to a very incorrect conclusion as to what put him in his place means.
I shake my head. ‘Not like that,’ I mouth.
‘You going to be okay?’ Cal asks with a frown. The guys will always be over-protective of me, and I can tell they’re not sold on Anton Wolff given the less-than-glowing character references I’ve given them.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I promise him, and with that I spin around. Anton’s waiting a little way away, hands in his pockets, his ram-rod straight posture radiating confidence.
Power.
With a single sentence, I could revoke my stupid rule and allow him to drag me beneath the surface of this ridiculous mask I wear.
But I know I’ll stay silent.
‘Make sure whoever you pick is okay with being watched,’ I tell him as I nod to the burly doorman to let us through.
‘Obviously,’ he says.
I follow him through the doorway into the dim, pulsing space.
He cuts through the crowd like a starving panther, single-minded as he eschews less worthy prey in favour of the ultimate prize. I swallow as I weave between our members.
Alchemy is in full swing.
The pillars are softly up-lit in white and pink, the drapes billowing softly between them.
One of my favourite burlesque dancers is performing tonight: Zeina.
She’s doing an elaborate fan dance while balanced on stage on the top of a plinth in nothing but a black thong and nipple tassels.
She’s mesmerising, but Anton ignores her as he stalks past several women pleasuring a ripped guy on one of the crosses with feathers and their mouths.
I imagine he’s like this in business. Focused.
Attuned only to his own thirst and the win that can slake it.
And I choose to believe that his attention is as much on this woman behind him as it is on the woman he’ll select to claim tonight.
I choose to believe that my presence, our little arrangement, will add a frisson that his conquest alone could never provide.
He pauses.
Considers.
Moves in for the kill.
She’s sexy rather than beautiful. Platinum blonde, like me. Fuller-figured, like me. I wonder if that’s deliberate on his part. I wonder if Anton has a type, or if he wants me to see myself in the woman he’s chosen so I can more readily imagine it’s me in his hands.
As if I’d need help imagining that.
But, unlike me, this woman hasn’t constrained her curves. Hasn’t used thousands of pounds’ worth of craftsmanship to wrangle them into submission to achieve the ultimate hourglass shape.
Instead, she’s in a red silk slip dress that falls to her ankles and showcases her assets plainly. The straps are tiny. The neckline is draped low and reveals her tits swinging loosely beneath. Her puckered nipples. The soft curves of her belly. Her hips. Her thighs.
She looks ripe for plunder, and I can tell at a glance that however similar our physical types, our personalities are polar opposites. I shift slightly to the left, which puts them both in perfect profile. I have an unobstructed view of the two of them.
Anton plants a palm against the pillar behind her, effectively caging her in.
He bends his head to whisper in her ear, and my pussy clenches on instinct at the undeniable dominance of his position.
His desire for authority is consistent, it seems. I watch as her face tilts up to his and her body melts into the pillar.
He’s got her already.
He hasn’t touched her yet. He’s talking softly. Grinning. Charming her before he moves in for the kill.
The man is a smiling assassin. He speaks to her again and her face turns in my direction. She gives me a smile that’s bordering on smug, and I instantly want to slap her, but I can’t blame her.
She should be smug as fuck.
I cross my arms.
She says something to him, and he lowers his head further so he can hear her.
I can’t see her face any longer, but I certainly see his fingertips trailing across the silk draped over her hip, wrinkling the fabric.
It’s a leisurely, assessing movement, and her body reacts instantly, arching against his.
He pushes off the pillar, straightening and flicking both her spaghetti straps off her shoulders so the flimsy fabric tumbles straight down and her breasts are bared.
I draw in a breath at the uncompromising sight before me, because shit just got real.
Anton’s staring at her heavy breasts with a naked intensity that is far more stirring than anything I’ve imagined, and I have the distinctly unpleasant feeling that he’s moved on from our game.
I bet he’s already forgotten I’m here.
Her dress is pooled around her waist. She’s let her head fall back against the pillar, her hands hanging at her sides.
He slides his hands up the sides of her body before he cups her breasts.
Fuck, he looks gorgeous. He’s so fucking huge, standing there in his impeccable clothes as he openly pets a half-naked woman.
Especially because she’s seriously petite. He must have almost a foot on her.
He strums his thumbs over her nipples, and she opens her mouth in pleasure. I can’t hear her moan over the heavy, sensual beat of the music and the carnal sounds of everyone else around us, but I don’t need to.
I’d fucking moan if Anton Wolff did that to me. I’d be helpless to hold it in, no matter how desperate I was not to give him the satisfaction.
And then he gets to his knees in front of her.