Page 4 of Claiming His Baby

“Let me go,” I squeak out, panic constricting my vocal cords.

“That’s it. I like that. Keep that up. I’m getting hard already.” He reaches into his pocket. “Now, since we’ll be getting to know each other intimately, you need to know what to scream out when I’m pounding you. The name’s Harvey.”

Keys jangle, the sound ringing in my ear. “No. I’m serious. Let me go.”

“Once you get into my room, you’ll change your mind. Just like all the other girls,” he says, pushing his key into the lock.

My heart gallops.

Oh, no. This guy thinks I’m just pretending to not want this.

My head spins.

Why did I think it was a good idea to go to a BDSM club? This is the kind of thing that happens in a place like this.

I hear a man clear his throat, and the grip around my arm loosens. In my panicked state, it takes me a while to realize there’s a second man here.

“Is there a problem here?” The man asking the question wears a black mask with two curved horns on it.

Harvey turns from the door, his forehead creasing with irritation. “No.”

“Let me hear it from the lady,” Minotaur Man insists.

Harvey bristles. “Mind your own business.”

That was a mistake.

In a split second, Minotaur Man has got Harvey pinned against the door, his hand bent painfully behind his back. The part of Harvey’s face not covered by his blue mask turns red as he fights for breath.

“I said I wanted to hear it from the lady,” Minotaur Man repeats, acid dripping from his voice.

He turns to me, and I find myself staring into the blue, placid pools of his eyes. Despite the confrontation, the man is unruffled. Not even a strand of his dark hair is out of place.

In a deep, authoritative voice, he asks, “Are you okay? Did this man hurt you?”

I should feel relief flooding into my bloodstream. Instead, my heart breaks into a gallop.

My savior—there’s something about him. His aura screams danger.

And the worst thing about it? That very aura is calling out to me.

Matteo

The girl shrinks, her back curving against the wall. She shakes her head.

“You’re not okay?” I ask as I twist the arm of the perv harder.

“Ow. Ow. Ow,” he squeals. “The bitch is lying. She’s fine.”

“The bitch?”

What the fuck?

I send the guy screaming into a world of pain. The noise might invite some attention, but who cares?

“Where does it hurt?” I ask her, my free hand balling into fist, ready to pummel the perv exactly where he has hurt her.

She shakes her head, her green eyes filled with apprehension. “No, I mean . . . I mean he didn’t hurt me. I’m okay.”

“See? I didn’t do anything to her,” the perv croaks. He lets out a relieved sigh when I loosen my grip on his arm.

Of course, he doesn’t know that’s just because I hate the idea of attacking anyone—even a worthless fuckface like this guy—from the back.

He turns around and adjusts his mask. Then, I punch him hard enough to send the blue, cardboard thing flying across the room.

The perv crawls on the floor. He seizes his mask and holds it with one hand over his face as he yells out for security. As soon as a black-clad, muscular man enters the room, he smiles. “That was against the rules. You weren’t supposed to do that to a VIP member. You fucked up. They’re going to kick you out.”

The bouncer, a bald man with tanned skin, scans the room. When his eyes land on me, a flicker of recognition flares in his stare. “Is there a problem here, Sir?”

“Yeah,” the perv says in his annoying high-pitched voice. “This guy just came out of nowhere and hit me. Get him out of here.”

But he’s just embarrassing himself. What he doesn’t realize is the bouncer is looking at me and not him, ignoring him and waiting silently for my response.

I would’ve loved to beat more sense into this guy. Show him what it feels like to be the weaker one, to be bullied into submission.

But I see the shudder running through the girl’s body. What she needs isn’t vengeance but comfort. And I’m dying to give it to her.

To the bouncer, I say, “Get him out of here. He’s been harassing this young lady.”

“What? I did no such—” The guy’s complaint is cut short when the bouncer grabs his arm and drags him away past the heavy, black curtain and into the main hall. His screeching turns into a faint sound, buried by the music playing outside.

Still, the girl’s shudders persist. She leans against the wall as though she’d collapse if she moved.

“Take a seat,” I tell her.

There’s an elaborate couch in the corner of the room—more decorative than anything since people only pass through this area on their way to the private section.

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