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“You can’t just move the gas lines to match up with the kitchen layout?” Aspen asks.
“Technically, yes,” Austin says. “But I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not quite that simple. There’s a lot to consider with the age of the building and just how much destruction we’d have to do in order to move them. Even though it would be a good fix that’ll keep me on track with the original design and save me from having to put in a new custom kitchen order, it could also turn into a really big pain in my ass.”
“Shit,” I say. “That bad, huh? Let me put in a call with my team. They’re on other assignments right now, but I’m sure they could spare an afternoon to come down and help you figure out your best course of action. I assume you’re in the market for a new architect too?”
“Yep. Didn’t even need to fire that asshole, he just knew it was time to pack up his shit and leave.”
Angella reaches across the table and takes Austin’s hand. “I’m sorry, love,” she says. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
Austin offers his mother a small smile. “Thanks, but between me and Izaac, I think we can get it handled,” he says as his small smile turns into a full-blown smirk. “Unless not doing the dishes is in the cards?”
Angella sits back in her chair, pulling her hand away from Austin’s and rolling her eyes. “No chance in hell,” she says, sparing a knowing glance toward Aspen when her brows furrow. Her gaze locks onto something, and she reaches for Aspen. “What on earth is that?” she demands in horror. “Did you . . . did you get a tattoo?”
Every eye at the table shoots toward Aspen in shock as Angella grips her wrist and gapes at the gold moth that’s all too fucking familiar.
My chest constricts, my eyes widening as Austin freezes beside me, knowing exactly what that gold moth is. Hell, I was the one who hired the designer to create it, but how the fuck did it end up on her wrist?
“What? No,” Aspen says to her mother, clearly unaware of the horror drumming through my veins. “It’s just one of those nightclub stamps. Becs dragged me out last night, and I completely forgot it was there. I rushed through my shower this morning, and I suppose I forgot to scrub it off.”
That fucking liar.Just one of those nightclub stamps?Bullshit.
Angella narrows her gaze on Aspen, dipping her finger in her water and scrubbing at the stamp, just to make sure she’s not lying, and when the stamp begins to smudge across her slim wrist, both Marc and Angella relax.
Only Austin and I don’t.
Because that stamp isn’t just a stamp to any nightclub like the three I own. It’s the exact stamp to the exclusive, underground sex club I make sure people have no fucking idea that I own. A stamp that would put her in the VIP lounge. The very same lounge where, just last night, I spent hours indulging in a beautiful woman, touching her in ways she’d never been touched before.
It’s not a club for the faint of heart. I built it specifically for members to explore their sexual fantasies, push their limits, and be free to do things they wouldn’t get the chance to do in the privacy of their own homes. A place where they can find willing partners who will do the things a loving partner maybe isn’t comfortable with.
In some ways, it’s fucked up, but in others, like last night, it’s never been so fucking right. But one thing is for sure, Vixen is the kind of club that a sweet, innocent soul like Aspen Ryder shouldn’t know a damn thing about.
But if she does, then perhaps she’s not quite the sweet, innocent soul I’ve always assumed her to be. And suddenly, I’m willing to cross every fucking line to find out.
6
IZAAC
Grabbing the dish towel, I blindly dry Angella’s good china as my gaze remains locked out the window, watching Aspen as she makes her way out to the pool, wearing a swimsuit that has me weak at the knees, the firm globes of her ass staring back at me as if begging me to take a bite.
But all I can think about is that fucking stamp.
Actually, scratch that. Make it two things.
That stamp and whatever it is that’s changed about her. I’ve never seen her like this, so full of confidence. She’s fucking radiant, and while it looks absolutely stunning on her, chances are good she’s dating someone, and I bet that asshole is the one who brought her to Vixen last night. She said her friend Becs was the one who dragged her out, but I doubt it. Over the past twenty minutes, sitting across from her and feeling the tension rolling off Austin, I suddenly found myself wondering if I truly know her at all.
Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
Austin slams a plate down on the drying rack before grabbing another and dunking it into the sink, not even bothering to look if the plate is getting clean. His gaze is locked out the window, just like mine. Only I can guarantee he’s not staring at his sister’s ass like I am.
“What the fuck was she even doing there?” he hisses, keeping his voice low so that his parents can’t hear us from the living room.
“What do you think she was doing there?” I throw back at him. “It’s asexclub, Austin. You’ve been there plenty of times. You know the drill. She was obviously—”
“STOP!” he grits through his teeth, almost breaking one of his mother’s fancy plates. “Don’t even think about finishing that fucking sentence.”
I roll my eyes. Is he that delusional that he doesn’t think his sister is having sex? Hell, she’s a senior in college, she’s probably fucking more than Austin is. He lost his virginity at fourteen to some cheerleader who ended up breaking his fragile little heart, and as for Aspen, she’s twenty-two now. I can guarantee that ship sailed a long time ago, but that’s not exactly something I should remind him of right now. Actually, ever. Not unless I want to spend the rest of the weekend nursing a concussion.
I watch Aspen take her long chestnut hair and curl it up into a bun before reaching for her cocktail glass. She takes a sip, every movement done so slowly as if knowing she has my full attention.
