Somewhere far behind me, my security detail struggle to keep up while dealing with the trail of chaos in my wake.
I drive like a man with a death wish, adrenaline crawling through my veins. It’s hot and vicious, sharpening everything around me. I grip the steering wheel hard enough to ache but it still isn’t enough.
Nothing’s been enough for the past two days. Anger dulls to irritation as I slam my foot harder against the accelerator. The car surges forward viciously, reaching the gates leading into my home. They’re already open, waiting for me.
I park outside the house hard enough that the tires screech against stone before killing the engine and stepping out.
The front doors are already open. One of the house staff stands waiting near the entrance, tense in a way everyone around me usually is.
“There’s someone downstairs waiting for you, sir,” he informs me.
A visitor. I’m not sure if they could have worse timing.
“Who?”
“Miss Torres, sir.”
Vicky. Her name flashes in my mind like a spark of something I’d been needing without realizing it. Her timing’s pretty perfect actually. And when I realize exactly what room she’s at, a smile climbs through my lips. Thoughts of all the fun we used to have there runs through my mind.
I head straight for the liquor cabinet first, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and pouring myself a glass. The burn hits the back of my throat but I barely feel it. The lower level of the house is silent except for the echo of my footsteps against concrete.
No prisoners, no moans of pain, no blood on the walls, no one has been housed in these rooms in a bit. I should work on changing that.
Most people never see this part of my house. Upstairs it’s all polished floors, elaborate luxury. Down here is different though.
The steel door at the end of the hallway swings open slowly beneath my hand. Darkness greets me first, then red light. The room before me is large, shadowed and suffocatingly decadent, illuminated by low tiny bulbs lining the black walls.
Chains gleam faintly from the reinforced beams overhead while leather restraints hang untouched beside them. There are mirrors positioned deliberately throughout the room, reflecting fragments of violence and pleasure from every angle.
A massive bed sits near the center, draped in black sheets. The entire room smells faintly of leather, whiskey and something darker lingering permanently in the air. And waiting in the middle of the bed is a woman on her knees in black lace and heels, perfectly arranged like a gift wrapped specially for me.
She smiles when she sees me. I feel absolutely nothing at the sight of her.
“Vicky,” I murmur in greeting, walking into the room.
Victoria Torres is one of the few people bold enough to walk into my home without an invitation. But she’s been here several times and I’ve never turned her down before. Not when she comes with the opportunity to make use of this room.
Liliana wasn’t wrong when she assumed this place would be like the one in that stupid fifty shades movie. Twenty- two year old me was inspired by it when I designed the room.
Her entering my thoughts only serves to rile me up again. My jaw tightens as I walk in further, trying to concentrate on the dark hair woman waiting for me in nothing but her underwear.
“You’re not supposed to be here without permission,” I start, my eyes trailing over her body, trying to summon some interest within me.
She pouts, “I just thought I’d surprise you, baby.”
I’ve known her for several years. Usually I don’t fuck women again after the first time. But she keeps coming back for more and she doesn’t seem to mind how rough or sadistic I can get while we have sex.
I place the bottle of whiskey on the table next to me, still staring at her. Most women would be unnerved by all theattention. I remember Liliana shifting under my intense gaze. And then in other moments she seemed to meet it head on.
Such a conundrum. She has thoroughly fucked with my head and now I can’t get her out of it. I’m going to try though.
“Take it all off,” I command lowly.
Vicky doesn’t hesitate to unhook her bra, letting it slide down to the bed.
My eyes trail over her breasts, disinterest pouring through every inch of me. She’s a beautiful woman and usually I’d be more than ready to have my way with her.
But it’s the wrong eyes. The wrong hair. The wrong everything.
