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Chapter 1
Varden
Thump.
The door slammed such that it echoed through the building and probably up the street. All heads snapped in my direction.
Success.
I stood in the entrance, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. This gave me the chance to adjust the Venetian-style mask I’d tugged over my face in the last minutes before entering. It covered my whole mug with an eerie, and I hoped mysterious, air. It was a comfort, as it always was, to run my fingers over the smooth alabaster lower half and along the swirly filigree trim. I smoothed over the bumpy rhinestones around the eyeholes, which were probably just cheap glass. It would have been nice if they’d been crystal, considering how much I’d paid for the damn thing.
My adjustments served another purpose—they gave me a second to scope out the room and assess the evening’s talent. A head start on the night’s possibilities would allow me to decide ahead of time which of the babes in attendance I was gonna spin on my dick before the night was over. The blue balls that had been killing me weren’t about to let me forget my mission.
Why the mask? Well, it wasn’t for style. I could give a crap about looking like I was a refugee from Carnivale. No, it was to disguise my identity. No one, and I mean no one, in the club knew who the hell I was. And I planned to keep it that way. The twelve hours a day I worked my hedge fund firm were not exactly relaxing. But the few hours a night I spent at the most secretive sex club in San Francisco allowed me to be a different person, something I craved the way a man needs air. Here at Club Silk I had no responsibility, no fortune, and no celebrity as San Francisco’s wunderkind financial brain. I didn’t even have a goddamn name. For a few miraculous moments, Varden Gallagher didn’t exist. And it was fucking amazing.
“G,” a female voice dripping with sex purred over my shoulder. Without turning around, I knew who it was.
But of course I turned to face her. “Miss M. Don’t you look beautiful tonight.” And she did. The proprietor of Club Silk stood before me in a slamming red evening gown that reminded me of something from those old-time movies my mother had loved. I think they’d been from the thirties? Or maybe the forties? Anyway, she looked like a goddamn movie star, and moved like one too.
“Darling.” She planted a kiss on the cheek of my mask. Probably left a big lipstick mark.
“How are you this evening, G?” she asked.
The first time each night I was called my “club name”—usually the first initial of the member’s last name—was jarring. But in a good way. Along with the ritual of pulling on my mask, it was strangely comforting and pushed me into my temporary identity. It was a clean transition from one world to the other.
Unable to return her kiss because of my mask, I ran a thumb along her cheek, grabbing a strand of her black hair and giving it a tug.
“Oh,” she moaned. “If you keep that up, I may have to spirit you away to one of our private rooms.”
She’d like that.
“I could never do that to you.” I loved to fuck with her.
She responded by belting out the laugh of a woman with the confidence of someone who owned the world. Like me.
“And why couldn’t you do that to me, my dear G?”
I ran a finger down the front of her dress to where it stopped just short of exposing her small but perfect breasts. When I knew I had her, I pushed the silky fabric down, baring a beautiful, dark nipple. My fingers closed on it and squeezed.
Miss M neither moved, nor altered her expression.
“M,” I explained, “because you’d never find satisfaction with another man after me. I couldn’t ruin you like that.”
How was that for a dick answer?
Her head fell back and she released another beautiful laugh. She smacked my hand right off her tit, tucked herself back into her dress, and whispered, “You can ruin me any day.”
With a wink, she floated across the room to greet another guest.
Maybe I should fuck her some day.
