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I halted at his words, and let my gaze fixate on a man in a suit pumping his flesh in and out of a nameless pussy.
“Is that your thing or…?”
He raised his brows playfully when he detected the disdain on my face. I liked breeding, but I had no interest in filling up anyone’s hole but Darius’s.
“Follow me,” he said, sauntering further into the den of vice.
Doors flanked us, cloaked in shadows and mystery, each marked by a rose of varying hue. Blood red, midnight blue, venomous purple—each a silent testament to the depravities hidden beyond their thresholds. My mind raced, conjuring images of what each color might signify in this hedonistic code. I trailed behind Kent, every step a descent deeper into the abyss. The red door swung open with a groan, an unholy chorus spilling out. Moans and grunts slammed into my senses, raw and animalistic. Kent’s hand landed on my back, heavy and insistent.
“Looks like your dry spell’s over,” he quipped, eyes glinting with the thrill of corruption.
“I don’t have a fucking dry spell,” I snapped, irritation flaring hot against the cool facade I maintained.
His grin was all teeth, wolfish in this den of debauchery. “Palming your cock to sleep every night doesn’t count,” he taunted.
“Fuck you. I’ve got a briefing in two hours,” I said, voice clipped. “I don’t have time for?—”
“Wes, Wes,” he interrupted, dismissive with a flick of his wrist. “It won’t take two hours for you to blow your load. Trust me.”
He flashed a predatory grin and sauntered over to a girl, who was probably no older than twenty-five, with perky tits and her legs spread to show off her tight pussy. Her fingers toyed with her clit, her veiled eyes slightly coming to life as Kent approached, his hands already on his belt bucket.
I looked away, refusing to have Kent’s bare ass engraved into my mind. I glanced around, surrounded by a tableau of flesh—the naked bodies of women splayed wide, their cries echoing off the walls. Men plunged into them with abandon, lost in primal urges. None of it stirred me. None of it touched the craving that gnawed at my bones. Then I turned, and the sight snagged my attention, held it captive. Two male bodies, entwined in a dance as age-old as time.
A sharp pang of arousal shot through me, my gaze locked on the older man commanding his willing subject. That could’ve been Darius—head bowed, lips eager, worshipping with a fervency that punched the air from my lungs. My cock betrayed me, hardening with each illicit thought of his mouth, hot and tight, circling me.
“Looks like you might need this.”
I barely registered her—some woman, flesh bared, breaking my line of sight. She extended a hand, a foil packet glinting in the dim light. I snatched it from her, irritation flaring for the interruption, yet the promise of slick heat tightened my grasp.
Back to the corner, my focus narrowed. The pair moved together, sinuous and raw. Every thrust, every bob of the head, a silent siren call to the carnal depths I’d submerged beneath layers of tailored suits and courtroom strategies.
Fabric strained against my cock; I surrendered to the pressure. Hand shaking, I freed myself, the rip of the lube packet deafening in the haze of lust. Flesh in hand, I was base, primal—every stroke a damning testament to the depravity I’d sunk to. I’d crossed lines before, forbidden and sweet, but nothing compared to the shameless hunger clawing at my insides now Darius’s ghost lingered on my skin, whispered sins that only we knew.
The illicit scene before me was a siren song; my hand moved of its own volition. Taut skin slid through slick fingers, each stroke fueling the fire that Darius had ignited within me. The twink’s eager mouth worked greedily, and the older man’s approving groans resonated with an authority I craved to yield to. I pumped faster, harder; the world narrowing down to the pulse of blood in my veins, the grip of my hand, the aching need that clawed at my gut. My breaths came out ragged, syncing with the rhythm of flesh against flesh.
I caught glimpses of the man’s face—etched with pleasure, commanding, powerful. It was the reflection of my own desires mirrored back at me. The bondage of societal norms unraveled with every pull on my length, every image of Darius’s half-lidded gaze as he would kneel before me, submitting yet controlling every thread of my being.
In the corner with my cock in my hand stroking like my life depended on it, I released, a silent roar in my throat as ecstasy ripped through me. Lust spent, my head tipped back, eyes seeking salvation in the shadow-draped ceiling. But redemption evaded me. As my gaze fell, it caught on the sharp lines of an olive-green suit. I turned, my heart seizing, and there he stood—Darius. His presence cut through the fog of post-orgasmic haze like a blade. Dark-brown hair, hazel eyes that knew too much. In that moment, our shared secrets stretched like a chasm between us, and the weight of what I’d become bore down with suffocating force.
Chapter7
Darius
The sight hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. Fucking Weston, in all his goddamned glory, standing there with his cock in his hand stroking himself shamelessly to the couple getting off in the corner, like he wasn’t one of Chicago’s slickest divorce attorneys, just another depraved soul in this cesspool of sin. I spun on my heel, every muscle in my body tensing to bolt.
“Darius!” His voice thundered down the hall, thick with entitlement and that fucking smug arrogance that made my blood boil. I didn’t look back. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I gunned it for the exit, the one that spilled into the filthy alley outside. Anything to escape the heat of his gaze burning into my skin. But when I grabbed the knob, the door was a stubborn bitch that wouldn’t give. “Fuck you,” I spat at the unyielding metal, my fist colliding with its icy surface with a resounding clang.
Breathing hard, I wheeled around, caging myself against the door. There he was, Weston, sauntering toward me like he had all the time in the world. His steps deliberate. He was the predator; I was cornered prey. But I wasn’t about to roll over and show my belly. Not to him. Not to anyone.
The air clogged my lungs, a mix of sex and sweat enveloping the space between us. Weston’s shadow loomed, his presence an affront to everything I wanted to erase. My pulse hammered in my ears, a drumbeat drowning out the chorus of carnal echoes. Eyes locked, no words spoken, our shared history hung heavy in the charged silence.
He stepped closer, a deliberate invasion of my already shrinking world. Jaw set, teeth grinding, I braced myself against the pull of those brown eyes; they were deep pools with the power to drown me. No fucking chance for pleasantries or bullshit banter. I was done.
Floorboards creaked under my boots as I skirted around him, gaze fixed on the worn wood grain. Anything but him. But Weston, that insufferable prick, had other plans—his grip like a vise on my arm, unyielding, possessive. A primal urge surged through me, and I twisted, fighting for freedom from his touch.
“Get the fuck off,” I growled, low and vicious. He shoved my face, pressing into the wall’s cold kiss. Paint chips dug into my cheek, a stark contrast to the heat of his body behind me. Curse words spilled, acidic and biting. His intake of breath was a hiss, too close to my ear, sending shivers down my spine despite the rage boiling in my veins.Fuck him. Fuck this.
