My own hand is moving in the same rhythm, clutching his cock and releasing. He’s rock hard, his trousers stretched so tight I scarcely have room to maneuver. I can’t stroke him, can’t reach his tip. I can only squeeze and let him go.
The crowd is loving every minute of the spectacle on stage. Some are shouting words of encouragement to Clarissa. Others holler suggestions to Jonathan. Mistress Nicolette watches from one corner of the platform, her intensity pulling more from the audience.
Cole’s teeth close over my earlobe, hard enough to sting. I have to concentrate to hear his words, barely breathed against my cheek. “Would you like that, my dear? In front of all these people? Do you want to be up on that stage?”
The answer is yes; he’s driving me wild. The answer is no; I’m repulsed by the very idea. I’ve neverimaginedfucking in public. What Cole does to me in our dungeon at home—it destroys me.It strips me to my bones. I can’t imagine revealing myself like that to strangers.
Jonathan must be getting close now. His breath sounds like a blacksmith’s bellows. His knuckles are white against Clarissa’s hair.
He pulls out from her lips with an audiblepop. She rocks back on her heels, gasping for a full breath. His fist closes over that massive cock, slick with Clarissa’s spit, and he strokes himself, grunting with each short, sharp tug.
Cole’s thumb leaves my mouth the same instant Jonathan’s cock springs free. He presses the heel of his hand against my belly, easing his fingers under the waistband of my trousers. He slips past my lace knickers, swiping the length of his soaked thumb against my clit.
My body jackknifes at the searing sensation. My knees flex, giving him more of my weight. My thighs grip his hand, and I don’t know if I want him to hold me there forever or tear me apart this instant.
On stage, Jonathan reaches his limit. Thick ropes of cum spurt across Clarissa’s lips before he paints her chest. The scarlet of her corset gleams against the pearls.
The audience goes wild. Jonathan pulls Clarissa to her feet with glistening fingers. Much to the crowd’s amusement, Gage makes a show of putting half the cash in Jonathan’s dry hand.
My fingers tighten around Cole; he’s still rock hard against my palm. Pulling me back against his chest, he presses so hard against my clit that I see stars. “Tell me you want it,” he growls. “You want them to see every inch of you.”
I shake my head, but I clench my knees to hold his hand in place. I won’t be able to bear it if he stops now.
Black shadows flirt at the edge of my vision. Thunder roars deep in my ears. I don’t remember ever being this excited, suspended on the edge of coming for so long.
From the stage, Gage is wrapping up the show. “Thank you,” he says, holding up a fistful of bills. “I hope every one of you goes home with?—”
“One more spin.”
The order comes from the far end of the room, from a cluster of tables that fan against the back wall. The words are as thick as concrete.
Cole pulls his hand from my trousers so quickly I almost fall. Both of us recognize the heavy, flat vowels of a Russian accent. My mouth goes dry.
Gage shields his eyes to look out at the crowd. “Master Jonathan was our last contestant for tonight. Next month?—”
“Not next month. Tonight,” the voice says. “I will pay. Ten thousand dollars.”
Surprise ripples through the audience. Cole grips my shoulder.
“That’s not the game,” Gage says, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Besides, there are no more Doms on the list.”
“Is new game,” the voice says. The crowd parts, and a man lumbers to the foot of the stage. His hair looks like the matted pelt of a bear. His flat nose has been broken at least twice before. His lips are the color of raw liver, and he licks them as he shoves a stack of bills into Gage’s hand.
The Russian isn’t part of the Tarasov bratva—at least, I’ve never seen him before. But he carries himself like a man used to speaking with a Markov in his hand. There isn’t a shred of doubt in my brain that he’s an enforcer, responsible for collecting his pakhan’s debts.
He says, “I name players.”
The crowd is so still they could be molded plastic toys. Gage finally rallies. “You aren’t allowed to?—”
“Cole Wolf,” the man interrupts. When he turns toward Cole and me, a circle clears around us, as if everyone else in the room is afraid our bad luck might rub off. “And little Katie Lynch.”
24
COLE
Rider descends from the stage like he’s climbing over the boards at a hockey rink. He stands so close I can hear him swallow. His back is to the Russian.
“Who is this guy?” I ask, my lips barely moving.
