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The card felt heavy in my hand, like a promise or a threat. James leaned back, eyes locked on mine. “Every member has a set time. Two hours,” he said, voice firm.
“Set days?” I asked, already knowing the answer I wanted to hear.
He shook his head, a smirk spreading across his lips. “No. Whenever you need it.”
I stared down at the black card, the fucking rose staring back at me. Power. Payback. I slid it back into the envelope with a soft whisper of paper against paper.
“Thanks for this,” I said, knocking my fist against James’ shoulder.
Exiting his room, I closed the door behind me. The wicked smile I wore felt like it was carved into my skin as I walked, my mind spinning with images of Weston. On his knees. Begging. Fucking begging for my forgiveness. My touch. My attention. I wanted that. Wanted to see pride bend and break under my grip. And now, I had the means to make it happen.
* * *
Sunlight filtered in, a golden trespasser against the sterile luxury of my hotel room. Dawn had crept up like a fucking thief, robbing me of darkness, but I didn’t mind. I was already awake, planning my power play. I peeled back the soft comforter, a swath of excess so typical of high-end hotels. My cock, hard and insistent, begged for attention, but I pushed the need aside. No way I’d waste my load on a lonesome jerk-off session. Not when I had bigger plans, plans that involved Weston’s tight ass.
The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine, a vicious thrill at the prospect of claiming him. My restraint was a game of control; each moment I held off only intensified what would come later. And fuck, it would be explosive. The chill of the room prickled against my bare skin as I strode from the bed to the bathroom. Each step, a sharp reminder of the cold reality awaiting me beyond these walls. The tiles underfoot sent shivers up my spine, a stark contrast to the warmth I left behind in that disheveled bed.
Water poured over me, a chilling touch that felt like icy tendrils mapping out the ridges of my body. Comfort wasn’t what I sought; it was the jolting shock only a cold shower could deliver. My hands glided across my chest, down to my abs, and cock. Imagining Weston’s touch in their place made me smirk. But that pleasure, that fuckin’ privilege, he’d have to fight for. Stepping onto the icy marble floor, a shiver raced up my legs. Snatching a towel, I roughly rubbed myself dry, as if I could erase the nervous energy prickling beneath my skin. Glancing at my phone’s glowing screen, it read 7:50 a.m. Perfect. Weston never broke his little morning ritual, and I couldn’t wait to disrupt his precious routine and shake things up.
My hair—dark, rebellious strands—needed taming. Gel in hand, I worked it through, sculpting each lock with precision. It had to look effortless though, like I didn’t give a shit, even though every detail was calculated. The mirror reflected someone ready to conquer, to dominate. Someone who didn’t just step on toes but crushed them under his boots.
The soft, blue dress shirt called to me next, the fabric smooth under my fingers. It clung just right across my shoulders, hinting at the strength underneath without screaming for attention. These clothes weren’t armor; they were a statement. The pressed slacks were next, and yeah, they hugged my ass because that was part of the game, too. Everything was a weapon, including this body.
Keys gripped tightly in my hand, I exited the hotel room. The city was a nocturnal paradise, but duty awaited with the dawn. Three nights holed up in this luxurious tomb—I refused to endure the daily commute back to the estate. Stepping outside, the brisk air stung my skin, a bracing jolt to jumpstart my day. My blue Porsche roared to life as I settled behind the wheel, slicing through the city’s veins with no fucks given. The air was thick, intensifying Chicago’s summer heat that already smothered everything in its path.
I arrived at the law office in no time and parked in the underground garage. The office was a ghost town, with only a few paralegals typing away at their desks. As I headed down the hall, they made no acknowledgment of my presence, which didn’t bother me one bit.
The door to Weston’s shrine of self-importance was wide open, and I stepped inside. Making my way around the mahogany desk, I settled into the plush leather chair and gazed out of the window at the Chicago skyline, biding my time while waiting for the asshole himself to arrive. I couldn’t remember the last time anticipation ran this rampant through my veins. It almost had me questioning who I was. I didn’t deny getting excited. Fucking and blowing loads excited me, but this was different. It was the type of anticipation that reached my core. Even after finding out the truth about him and my dead dad, my hatred toward him didn’t run as deep as I liked, no matter how hard I tried. I would be a fucking lying bag of shrimp dicks if I didn’t admit to myself it scared the fuck out of me. But I sure as hell wouldn’t let that asshole know it.
The sound of his voice snapped me out of my thoughts and made my cock pulse. There was something about the rumbling bass in the back of his throat, present only in the early hours of the day, that had a strange effect on me. I ignored the throb and placed a finger on my cheek as I waited.
“Excuse you?” he said, his cologne filling the space.
I swiveled in the chair and locked my gaze on him.
Without so much as a glance my way, he killed the call mid-sentence, his finger stabbing the end button with finality. The room’s air shifted, charged with an electricity that sparked from wall to wall.
I let the silence stretch a beat longer, my body idle in the chair's spin—a lazy predator toying with its prey. “Cat got your tongue?” My voice cut through the stillness, each syllable laced with a taunting edge, sharp enough to slice open the facade of any well-groomed lawyer.
Weston’s gaze was a challenge, an unspoken dare that I met head-on. His posture rigid with surprise or maybe anticipation, he circled his desk like a hunter claiming territory. The sleek surface of polished wood separated us for only a moment before he stepped directly into my space.
The air between us crackled, tense and thick with the unsaid. My hand moved, deliberate and slow, as I drew the black card from my wallet and slid it across the desk toward him.
He stood frozen, those his eyes locked on mine, searching for… what? I didn’t give a fuck.
I rose from the chair and closed the distance. I leaned in close, so damn close. My lips hovered by his ear, my breath a featherlight touch against his skin as I delivered the ultimatum. “7:00 p.m. Don’t be fucking late.”
Without waiting for a response, I sidestepped him, my exit as assured as my entrance. The door was inches from closing behind me when his voice cut through the room, razor-sharp and laced with confusion.
“What the fuck is this?”
Halfway through the door, I paused and turned to face him. The black card pinched between his fingers like it was some sort of toxic substance.
“Your second chance.” My voice was gravel, hard with certainty. “Don’t fuck it up.”
His eyes, dark pools of unreadable expression, flicked from the card to my face and back again. Searching for a loophole, maybe. But there wasn’t one.
I didn’t wait for his response. Didn’t fucking need it.
