Chapter 8
Charlotte
S ex with Kane had always been intoxicating. But what we’d just done against the wall of my apartment, that had been something else entirely. A collision. An explosion. Two years of resentment and want combusting into an inferno neither of us could control.
I hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t thought at all. One moment I’d been furious with him, swinging at him like an idiot, and the next his mouth had been on mine and rational thought had ceased to exist.
It was the stupidest thing I could have done.
He was my bodyguard. I was his client. He clearly resented me for writing the article that had destroyed his career, and I couldn’t fully trust a man who, as all the evidence confirmed, had been involved in the very kind of corruption I’d dedicated my life to exposing.
But I hadn’t been able to resist him. Hadn’t wanted to resist him.
And now, freshly showered and sitting in the passenger seat of his car as he drove us toward The Players Club, I was about to make the same mistake all over again. On purpose this time.
You’re going to die anyway , a dark voice whispered in the back of my mind. Calloway will see to that. What’s the harm in enjoying some incredible sex before it happens?
It wasn’t the most inspiring justification. But it wasn’t wrong, either.
Kane and Sutton wanted me to leave the city, to abandon the story that Ruth had died for. That wasn’t going to happen. Which meant my life was forfeited the moment I refused to run. I’d accepted that reality the second I’d found Ruth’s body, or what was left of it.
So if I was potentially living on borrowed time, why not spend some of it in the arms of the only man who’d ever been able to make my mind go quiet? The one man who understood exactly what I needed and how to give it to me?
Besides, Kane was right about one thing: we had a lot to work through. The anger, the attraction, the complicated mess of emotions that flared every time we were in the same room. If we were going to work together—if I was going to trust him with my life—we needed to clear the air.
And apparently, for us, that meant fucking each other senseless.
I’d taken a quick shower after our... encounter, washing away the evidence of what we’d done while carefully not thinking about how his hands had felt on my body, how his cock had felt inside me, how I’d screamed his name like it was the only word I knew.
When I’d emerged, I’d deliberately chosen the most unimpressive outfit I could find. Jeans. A plain shirt. No makeup, no carefully styled hair, no sexy lingerie hidden underneath. He wasn’t going to get any more effort than he deserved.
If Kane had opinions about my appearance, he kept them to himself. He simply escorted me to his car with a hand at the small of my back—a light touch, almost impersonal, except for the way it made my skin tingle through the fabric of my shirt.
I watched him as we walked through the parking garage, and despite everything, I couldn’t help but notice how aware he was of our surroundings.
His eyes never stopped moving, cataloging shadows and sight lines, checking corners before we rounded them.
His body was relaxed but ready, the kind of controlled alertness that came from years of training.
He made me feel safe.
That should have been reassuring. Instead, it left me deeply unsettled because this was the same man I’d once trusted implicitly.
The same man I’d believed was good right up until I’d seen his name tangled up in corruption and evidence theft.
And now, walking beside him again, watching the way he positioned himself slightly closer to the open side of the garage and how he subtly guided me away from blind spots without even seeming to think about it, doubts I’d buried started creeping back to the surface.
Had I been wrong about him back then? Or was I making the same mistake all over again now?
I hated how easily he slipped past my defenses, the way my body relaxed in his presence even while my mind kept warning me not to trust him.
But some deeper part of me—the part that had submitted to him so willingly two years ago—still recognized him as someone who would put himself between me and danger without hesitation.
Whether he deserved that trust was another question entirely.
The car ride passed in silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but heavy with everything unsaid.
I stared out the window at the Vegas lights sliding past, hyperaware of his presence beside me—the heat of his body, the flex of his hands on the steering wheel, the occasional glance he threw my way that I pretended not to notice.
At the club, Kane showed his membership and mentioned the playroom he’d reserved online, probably while I’d been in the shower. But when it came time to sign me in, there was a pause.
“You aren’t a member?” His voice held quiet surprise.
I signed the contracts—all the agreements you had to initial when entering as a guest. I’d signed them before, years ago, but enough time had passed that I was no longer in the system.
“No.” I didn’t elaborate.
The truth was, I hadn’t been back since our second session. Since that night I’d floated home on a cloud of endorphins and hope, counting down the days until our dinner date. Then three days later, I’d seen his name in my research files and everything had shattered.
It had been easier to stay away than to risk running into him. Easier to pretend The Players Club—and the beautiful submission I’d found there with Kane—had never existed.
The main rooms on the first floor were busy, as they always had been.
Elegant couples in various stages of undress, demonstrations happening on the open stages, the low hum of conversation and pleasure mixing with ambient music.
The club had always impressed me with its sophistication and the careful design that made everything feel indulgent and sensual.
Kane didn’t let me linger and he didn’t stop at the bar or greet any of the people who clearly recognized him. His hand found the small of my back again, a light pressure as he guided me toward the stairs.
The private room he’d reserved was different from the one we’d used before—no suspension rigging for shibari or hooks in the ceiling for elaborate rope work.
I was grateful for that. I didn’t want to be reminded of that last night, when I’d been suspended and floating and so certain I’d found something real.
When I’d imagined a future with this man who could take me apart so beautifully.
The room held a large leather-padded table with built-in restraints, a cabinet that undoubtedly contained various implements, and soft lighting that cast everything in an intimate golden glow. Clinical and sensual at the same time.
Kane closed the door behind us, and when he turned to face me, a tangible awareness shifted in the air between us.
I’d forgotten how he could completely transform when he stepped into the role of Dom.
It wasn’t just physical, though he seemed larger somehow, his shoulders broader, his presence more commanding.
It was a spark in his eyes. A focused intensity that made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The only thing he intended to devour.
My breath caught. Heat unfurled through my veins, warming me from the inside out, and I felt that familiar tug deep in my core—the submissive part of me recognizing her master, wanting to kneel, wanting to please.
What are you doing? a small, panicked voice asked.
This is insane. He’s the man you exposed.
The man who looks at you like he still hasn’t decided whether he wants to kiss you or ruin you.
The man you’ve spent two years trying to convince yourself you were right about. You cannot afford to trust him again.
But God, the way he looked at me, like he already knew exactly what I was thinking, what I needed. Exactly how badly I wanted to give in.
“In here, you’re mine to command,” Kane said, and the voice in my head went silent, drowned out by the dark velvet purr of his tone.
“That means you’re going to listen to me and do as I say.
And I think you need a reminder of just how much you enjoy submission when I’m the one calling the shots.
That there are no second thoughts when you hand over control, knowing I’ll keep you safe, instead of fighting me every step of the way. ”
I understood then. The angry sex at my apartment had been a catharsis—a release valve for two years of pressure.
This was different. This was about trust. About proving that I could follow his orders, that I could submit to his judgment, that I could put my safety in his hands the same way I was about to give him my body.
Okay , I thought. We released the anger. Now show me you can be trusted. And I’ll show you I can follow your lead.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Kane shook his head slowly, his eyes dark and unreadable. “No. For this, you’re going to call me ‘master.’”
That stubborn part of me bristled. I’d never called anyone that—it felt too intimate, too submissive in a way that scraped against my independence. But the look on his face challenged me. He thought I couldn’t do it. Believed I’d balk at this first test.
Fine. I’ll show you.
“Yes, master,” I said instead, and watched hunger flare in his expression.
“Strip,” he ordered. “Then get on the table and lie on your back.”
He patted the leather surface, and my pulse kicked up another notch. This was really happening. We were really doing this.
I pulled my shirt over my head, unclasped my bra, and shimmied out of my jeans and underwear. His eyes tracked every movement, burning over my skin like a physical touch, but he didn’t reach for me. Just watched with that predatory patience I remembered so well.