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It really is a lot more welcoming than I was expecting. Though still really well equipped with a kitchen, multiple playrooms, and multiple bathrooms. One bathroom was also a playroom with a giant shower and counters, which is cool, and I definitely did a double-take at theclassroom.
I push open the door into the parking lot of what’s essentially a large, upscale warehouse tucked off a side street in a less busy part of the city. It’s not a bad place to open a club of this kind, I’d say, and while the alley that leads back to the street is a little bit on the skeevy side, and probably more so at night, I can’t find many complaints with anything here.
Except for the person leaning against the side of the building, gazing up at the sky that’s beginning to cloud over.
“What do you want?” I ask Cyril, shoving my hands in the pocket of my hoodie. “And how in the hell did you know I was here?”
“You are very predictable, first of all,” he drawls. “And more than that, I’m not going to say.” He cast a look back at the nondescript door that leads to the club, and I glance away, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “You ever been before?” he asks, tilting his head in the direction of the dungeon.
“Isn’t it new?” I ask, confused by the words.
“It’s reopened, but not new,” Cyril explains, shaking his head. “I like the owners and the board more this time around.”
My skin seems to prickle at the statement. “You come here?”
Cyril turns his dark gaze on mine, half of his mouth tugging up into a smile as he does. “Yeah, I do. Why? Are you never going to come here again now that you know?”
“Maybe.”
“There aren’t any other kink clubs in the city, Wendy Darling.”
I frown and let out a sigh. Apparently, his love of that stupid new nickname hasn’t worn off yet like I’d hoped it would.
I’m not his Wendy Darling, and he is notmyPeter Pan.
And I sure as fuck never signed up to be a part of his Neverland.
“Then I’llsuffer,” I shoot back finally. “Do you need something from me, or are you just pretending to be a stalker?”
“I don’t have to pretend for that.” He rewards me with a wide smile. “But stalking implies that I followed you, and like I said before. I don’tneedto.”
I don’t know what he means by that, but I don’t like it much.
“You shouldn’t have asked what was in the package,” he adds, and there’s a warning note in his voice that wasn’t there before.
“Because tea might offend me? Or because you thought I’d steal it for myself?” Thunder rumbles from somewhere in the distance, and I pull my hood up, just in case.
Cyril glances up as well and pushes off the wall. “I’ll give you a ride home,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“I’ll get an Uber,” I reply flatly.
But Cyril shakes his head. “We aren’t done speaking.” He moves off the wall toward me, but I’m prepared this time, and I move toward the mouth of the alley, prepared to go on my merry way and get a car home.
I don’t expect him to snag my arm and spin me around until my back is shoved up against the concrete of the alley. And I don’t expect him to meet my gasp of surprise with a grin and by shoving one knee in between my thighs.
But I also don’t hate it, and that’s rather concerning. Being with bad guys really shouldn’t be an undiscovered kink of mine, and I refuse to let itbeone. My hand flies up to grip his wrist as he pins me to the wall by the front of my throat, but no matter how hard I dig my nails into his skin, he doesn’t relent.
“I wasn’t done, Ari,” he says, and somehow the way he says my name is a lot more terrifying than him calling meWendy Darling.
My breath hitches in my throat, and his eyes darken.
“You shouldreallybe careful,” he goes on, his tone turning teasing. “That’s not the sound a scared girl makes. And Iknowyou’re scared of me.”
“Just your breath,” I choke out around his hand that isn’t cutting off my air in the least. It’s just tight enough to be a constant, near-painful pressure around my neck, and I honestly can’t say I hate it. “What did youeatfor lunch?” I’m lying. In reality, his breath smells minty, like he might be chewing gum.
Cyril fixes me with a disbelieving look. “My breath smells fine,” he tells me flatly.
“Yeah, you’re not the one beingbreathedon like this,” I reply, but it’s a losing argument by now. Cyril sighs and readjusts his grip, being careful not to touch the edges of the bandage that covers the tattoo.
