Want Me

CHAPTER 01

Owen

The Black Estate sat nestled deep in the woods, where the trees grew thick enough to swallow the early afternoon light.

Pine trees and ancient oaks stretched high overhead, twisting over the road I drove down.

Only those with an invitation drove down this road because only those who were wanted here were allowed on the premises.

Iron gates marked the threshold with thick black bars, and a high fence wrapped around the expansive property.

To the outside world, it was nothing more than a curious location with rolling landscape and a mansion that was significantly larger than it should’ve been from a distance.

The closer one got to the architectural masterpiece, the more imposing it became, with its elegant lines, stonework, and shadow play built into the design.

And it was supposed to. Inside its confines, the Black Silk Society operated where the rest of the world couldn’t touch it.

The Society was an exclusive club. They said once you were in, it could provide you with anything and everything you ever wanted—sex, thrills, indulgence. Those were the words people used more than anything else.

But that wasn’t what made the Society dangerous.

Those were surface-level desires used to fund something deeper. Something most people would never dare to touch, let alone understand.

Behind closed doors, the Society operated with a precision that bordered on the invasive.

It fed on desire. Fantasies weren’t simply fulfilled.

They were studied, reshaped, and explored in ways that our clients never anticipated.

And those clients—the ones brave enough, desperate enough to chase something they couldn’t quite say outloud—didn’t just leave satisfied.

They left changed.

Because we knew what they truly needed, and we were never afraid to give it to them.

I eased my sports car to a stop next to the security booth at the gate and rolled down the window.

The man inside was dressed as pristinely as I was.

His black suit was neatly tailored to his strong body, matching the black dress shirt he wore underneath.

The cut made it impossible to miss the compounded muscle he maintained.

Dark hair was cropped short at his scalp, drawing attention to his stunning pale green eyes.

If I didn’t have a healthy respect for professional boundaries, I’d have him bent over his small desk already.

“Evening,” Lance said with an easy grin.

The slight drawl in his voice screamed small-town in the South.

He leaned against the door of the booth.

I caught the way his gaze drifted over the interior of my car, giving it a quick once-over.

We knew each other well enough for him to trust I wasn’t about to smuggle contraband onto the property. “How are you tonight, Mr. Wells?”

He was one of three people who knew my real name here, and that was only because he was the head of security. To everyone else, I was simply the Conductor. Titles mattered here. Names did not.

Within the Society, I held the rank of Architect—an earned position that was not assigned lightly. We weren’t scheduled, nor did we keep regular working hours. We were summoned. Requested by design, chosen by reputation, called in only when we were required.

As the Conductor, I was known for orchestration. For balance. For total control over multiple bodies.

Once upon a time, I’d been a sought-after dance choreographer.

I worked in theaters around the country.

But I wanted more—different—which had led me to a job at the Society.

I trained their dancers, teaching the art of seduction through motion, timing, and discipline.

The Society paid far better than any theater ever had, and it demanded more in return.

I gave them everything I had. Long hours and endless routines dominated my life for years, but I thrived in the challenge.

And someone noticed. Not just my impeccable choreography, but the way I watched. The way I adjusted. The way I anticipated. The way I controlled the dancers without ever breaking their illusion of freedom.

That was how I was chosen.

The Society saw my true talents and rewarded me for them.

“I’m doing just fine,” I replied.

“Mr. Hemingway is expecting you,” he told me, as if I didn’t already know. It was formality, and I knew that. While he kept talking, he hit the switch to open the gates. “Take the left drive, and take it slow.”

I knew that as well. The gates swung open silently. Despite their age, they worked flawlessly.

“Thank you, Lance.” I eased off the brake and rolled forward.

While the right was considered the main drive and led straight toward the mansion, the smaller drive on the left was for special employees only.

It wove unevenly away from the gates and disappeared through a patch of trees toward the back of the property where a modest house sat in a grove.

Thick patches of wildflowers took over the lawn, and a cobblestone path led to the soft blue front door.

Everything about the house contrasted with the expensive elegance of the mansion, but Vincent Hemingway was a modest man. He may have dealt in the expensive indulgences of others, but the only thing he wanted was peace, quiet, and his space away from it all.

The door opened while I climbed out of my car, and Vincent stepped out. He ignored me for a moment as his head tipped back, eyes sliding shut. I watched as he basked in the afternoon sunlight like a man starved of simple pleasures.

Vincent was an enigma of a man—one I’d stopped trying to understand a long time ago.

On the outside, he looked the part of the man he played.

His dark hair and beard were neatly tamed and trimmed, and it was clear he took care of his body.

Even the linen dress shirt and white pants he wore were very much in style.

But beneath that, he was soft-spoken and compassionate.

He collected types of wildflowers instead of expensive items and donated to charities instead of investing.

It was almost as if the man he was within the Society was nothing more than a part he cultivated to appease others.

Only the Architects were allowed to see him like this—to be a part of his quiet inner circle.

We’d earned the chance to know him, and I truly believed none of us took that for granted.

He blinked, then immediately squinted as the bright light assaulted his light-brown eyes, making me chuckle.

“Turn your head away from the sun before you open your eyes, Vinnie,” I said with a chuckle.

“Or perhaps you haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the brilliance of the sun in your eyes,” he countered.

“I think every eye doctor would disagree with you.”

“Or perhaps they just haven’t lived yet.” Turning, he wandered back inside, and I followed. That was all the invitation I needed.

The inside of his house was as simple as the exterior.

There were potted plants in every room, a vintage piano in a green room off the living room, and everything was either cream or light blue.

The first time he brought me here, the softness of it all was almost off-putting compared to the stoic man I knew.

But over time, I watched his armor fall off, and this place made a lot more sense.

I didn’t think twice about it anymore. It was just who he was.

He headed straight to the back of the house, where he kept his office—his real office. The one in the mansion was for looks alone when his presence was absolutely required for something. Despite the elaborate setup, he didn’t keep anything there.

“Tell me what I’m dealing with,” I said as I sat in the chair opposite his desk.

“I think this one might challenge you,” Vincent replied. That certainly piqued my interest. Rarely did anything he assign me challenge me. Swiping up the file sitting in the center of his organized desk, he handed it over. “Take your time. I’d like to hear what you think.”

I flipped it open and started reading.

Liam Baker… personal assistant… thirty-one years old.

“He’s young.” My gaze flicked upwards, meeting Vincent’s.

He merely nodded, and I said nothing more.

While I wondered how he could afford a fantasy fulfilled, I knew better than to ask.

The cost of fantasies was a well-kept secret.

Only Vincent knew how that worked. I knew just how much money people spent on other parts of the Society, so I could only imagine the cost of something like this.

I flipped through the file, skipping over information like his sexual preferences, kinks, limits, and so on. I could get into that later. What interested me was the last page—the one where he asked for what he wanted, where he put words to his fantasy.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been touched, longer than I want to admit. I can’t remember what it’s like to feel wanted by someone. I’m not sure anyone ever did. I just want to feel wanted by someone. Someones. A few someones. I’d like to feel wanted by a few someones.

I could practically feel the rambling thoughts through his words on the page. Those last few sentences were all too telling. How long did he stare at the dry ink as he contemplated tossing the whole thing out?

To make him feel wanted was an interesting request. Fantasies were so often specific—deep indulgences that someone couldn’t find in the real world.

I was used to a wide array of requests, but this…

this made me wonder exactly what kind of life Liam Baker had where he couldn’t find a single person to make him feel wanted.

I scanned the rest of the page. A little grin turned my lips at his comment about being shy. Shy was such an easy thing to fix. A few well-placed touches, and everyone opened up in ways they didn’t expect.

I read through Vincent’s notes at the bottom.

Elena, as his handler, was a good choice.

She was firm but gentle, and she picked up on micro-emotions better than most as she went through the arrival procedures.

The penthouse was a good location—I was familiar with it—but I stopped at the additional support notes.

He’d listed Ares and Storm. I made a face as I considered it.

Ares was another Architect. As the Acolyte, he specialized in worship and praise.

He’d be a smart choice with a scenario like this, but Storm didn’t fit.

“Considering Mr. Baker’s request to feel wanted, I think it’s a poor choice to have Storm there,” I said.

“Explain,” Vincent ordered.

“There are too many moving parts with three partners,” I told him.

“Don’t get me wrong, I could make it work flawlessly, but it wouldn’t benefit the client.

He wants to be wanted, which means we’ll all be focused on him.

The scales will be skewed in his favor. Two people create a balance, but three can become overwhelming.

And I have a feeling Mr. Baker wouldn’t do well if he felt overwhelmed in this scenario. Storm needs to be removed .”

Vincent nodded slowly as he considered my words. His expression was unreadable, but I expected that. He gave away nothing unless he meant to. It left me waiting and creating a contingency plan as I prepped for his decision. If he insisted, I’d make it work.

“I’ll email Elena to have her remove Storm from the experience.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Vincent replied. “There’s a uniqueness in his request, and I think it’s going to push you outside of your comfort zone.”

“Oh?” I arched a brow curiously and waited for him to elaborate.

“You orchestrate and conduct these experiences beautifully,” he said.

“Every single one is a masterpiece of your own mastermind, but with Liam? Your own thoughts and plans will only get you so far. You’ll have to figure out his wants and his needs as the experience evolves.

You have to discreetly let him take the lead without him feeling like he has to tell you.

He has to feel heard and seen in every single moment. You can’t prepare for that, Owen.”

I made a sound as my gaze dropped back to the file in front of me. He wasn’t wrong, which was a problem. Bringing Liam’s fantasy to life might just be the first real challenge I’d had in years. It stirred up something inside me—something foreign. An interest I couldn’t put words to.

That alone should’ve been enough reason to tell Vincent no. Feelings of any kind were the last thing we brought to the table when we built fantasies. They were a dangerous and unpredictable variable.

And yet… I still said yes.