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That sounded entirely doable.
So that was what I did.
I worked. Then, at night, I would drive over to Golden Glades and spend some time with Cato.
We exchanged numbers that first night, so sometimes I had him come out to Miami. Not to my place. That felt way too soon. But to go out to eat. To take a drive, where we would find some private spot and fuck in the car until we were both boneless and content.
We talked, too.
About the club and his brothers a lot, since I didn’t have a big circle to discuss. And the more times I went to the clubhouse, the more I saw these men, so it was nice to put stories to the faces.
There were Seeley and Levee, his old childhood friends. Seeley, in a sweet twist of fate, ended up with his childhood love. While Levee was just searching for the next woman to spend a night with.
There were the older members of the club, men married with kids and businesses.
Alaric, the former exotic dancer with sharpshooting skills and a really toxic body image problem.
There were the new guys, too.
York, a big, burly guy who seemed more suited for the backwoods swinging an ax than in balmy Florida. He was kind of quiet, didn’t go out of his way to say much when I was around.
Coast, well, Coast was the definition of a bad boy. He was the kind of guy who had ‘bad news’ tattooed across his forehead. All sex and fun and violence muddled together to form a pretty irresistible cocktail. The club girls, half naked most of the time, were all over him. Like a new puppy to fawn over.
And then there was Velle.
Who kind of unsettled me, but I couldn’t exactly say why. Every time I saw him, he seemed to be in some deep, intimate conversation with someone who seemed stripped bare and vulnerable by whatever they were talking about.
I actually kind of avoided any one-on-one conversations with Velle.
Not that it was difficult. Most of the time when I was at the clubhouse, I was in Cato’s room. And a good chunk of time, we were fucking. What can I say? We liked each other a lot that way.
But there were times when Eddie—who I told I would allow to become one of my sugar babies in the future for his culinary skills—would make a big spread, and we would go downstairs to eat, making us all need to interact.
I worried at first that it might feel awkward. I’d never been in the position to be around a guy I was banging’s inner circle, to get to know them, and sit across from them and share meals.
The thing was, it was surprisingly easy. Effortless, even. Like they saw nothing off about a steady woman around. But then again, the club girls were around a lot too. And the old ladies of the older members, though I hadn’t really met any of them.
Cato was completely comfortable with it, too. He would often even press a hand to my hip or the small of my back, little gestures that felt oddly—yet sweetly—possessive. Like I was his.
The crazy thing was, as the days stretched on, that was what I was starting to feel, too.
Like his.
And, in turn, like he was mine.
I would have thought I’d feel anxious or uncomfortable with that information.
Instead, all I felt was a sort of… ease. A rightness.
We didn’t talk about it, of course. About titles or futures or anything like that. Neither of us seemed particularly versed in the area of relationships. But that definitely seemed like what this was starting to become. A relationship.
As big and scary and foreign as that was.
The thing was, though, as much as we had started to share, there was a lot that I knew I hadn’t given him yet.
Like my address.
Like my profession.
