“We have to hurry.”
I quickly showered, then got ready and put on one of the white dresses Nestore had ordered for me. A car was waiting in the driveway when Nestore led me outside by the hand.
The moment we slid into the back seat, the driver hit the gas.
I slanted a look at his bare chest. “Why the fur?”
“People need something to occupy their idle minds. If they’re busy with my current extravagancies, they won’t linger in the past.”
It made sense. Nestore had created a figure that people could fear and admire, and he was playing his part masterfully. Or was it really played?
“Is fur kinder on your scars?” I asked in a low whisper so the driver wouldn’t hear me.
Nestore nodded once, a vulnerable admittance that gave me hope.
“I used to love wool and even linen, but I can’t stand the feeling of it on my back.” My father’s belting had left a few scars on my skin there, and they were very sensitive to certain fabrics. “I prefer silk or smooth cotton.”
Nestore reached for a strand of my hair and let it glide over his fingers. “If you want to see a scar specialist for lasering, money won’t ever be an issue. Whatever I own is yours.”
My heart swelled. I swallowed, then smiled softly. “I’ll carry my scars as you do yours. They are part of my past, and I won’t hide them.”
We arrived in front of a square building with a neon sign featuring Medusa and the name Medusa written above it.
“A strange name for a sex club,” I mused.
Nestore released my hair and smirked. “I found it fitting.” He slid out of the car, then held out his hand for me. I took it and allowed him to pull me to my feet. He didn’t release my hand as he led me toward the entrance and past two massive bouncers who stepped back respectfully as we strode through the lobby, then continued into a long room without windows. A few men were scattered around the room, mesmerized by actions on a platform.
My mouth fell open in shock. Two women lay on a rotating bed in the middle of the club. One of them lay on top of the other, and they had their heads between each other’s legs, pleasuring each other with their tongues and mouths. I had never seen other people have sex, much less two women. They cast seductive looks at the men at the surrounding tables as if to invite them to join—a spectacle.
Nestore stopped beside the platform. His neutral expression was disinterested, though I wondered if any man could remain cool watching a sight like this. Even I would probably have felt hot and bothered if I didn’t know none of these women truly enjoyed themselves. It was their job and not always voluntary.
“I spent many hours watching them to learn how exactly I would lick your pussy to make you beg for more,” Nestore mused.
My core heated, remembering how indulging Nestore’s mouth felt between my thighs, how well his tongue drove me up to unknown heights.
“You practiced with them?” I tried to sound flippant, but my chest burned with jealousy at the thought that Nestore had pleasured another woman like that. I still mourned that he had lost his firsts to someone else.
“No,” he said, his eyes almost bored, as he watched one of the women plunge two fingers into the pussy of the other, hovering above her face. “You are the first woman I pleased like that.”
I froze, filled with relief and surprise. So at least that first belonged to me. “Really?”
He tore his gaze from the women to give me a bitter smile. “I don’t lie to you. You can trust in my word.”
His fingers around my hand tightened, and he tugged me along, past the women and the men who had finally noticed us and turned to horrified spectators. Seeing fear and fascination on other people’s faces when they saw Nestore was becomingnormal. Nestore was a formidable sight with his height, scars, and long fur coat. At least he wore combat boots outside of the mansion. I could only imagine how much more unsettling he would look to people if he walked around everywhere barefoot.
A tall Asian woman stood behind the bar, mixing cocktails. Her dark eyes zoomed in on me for a heartbeat before she focused on Nestore, her expression not giving anything away. Tiny stars were tattooed into the skin above her left eyebrow and the word “blessed” over the right.
“Where is he?” Nestore asked.
“In the second room on the left. He’s busy. Fabiano is in the office,” she said. Something about her intonation was slightly off, and a closer look revealed she had two barbell piercings in her tongue. Her eyes met mine for a heartbeat, curious, before she busied herself with her work again.
Nestore tugged me farther along through another door. Behind it, several women sat on a half-moon-shaped sofa and had a breakfast of donuts and black coffee.
They fell silent when they spotted us. Their gazes lingered on me before they lowered their heads. The oldest, a very tall, slender African American woman, maybe in her early thirties, rose to her feet. “Do you want anything, Mr. Romano?”
“No,” he clipped. Without another word, we moved along toward a door at the end of the corridor. I couldn’t help but wonder if Nestore had slept with any of these women. They worked for him. It was common for powerful men to use the women who worked for them like that. What else had they done? One of them had very voluminous lips, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how she might have pleasured Nestore with them. It made my heart ache and made me want to claim Nestore for myself in every way. He wore a ring that marked him as mine, but how much did that mean in our world?
Nestore opened the door to his office when another door creaked open at the end of the corridor. Remo stepped out, shirtless and with an unbuckled belt.
