Entering my room, I go straight to my desk and sit at my laptop. I need to focus on work, which is what the entire evening was about. The Gala was about obtaining information, speaking with contacts, and delivering a blackmail note to a guest—nothing more. It was most certainly not about Katja Belov. But as I begin downloading the pictures I secretly took while at the event, I can’t help but notice Katja in many of them. The woman knows how to work a room like no other.
That dress she wears paints her body like a masterpiece. Her dark hair gleams in every picture like rich ink from a fountain pen. Her eyes… her eyes pull me into every single picture I watch loading onto my computer.
Hating myself for my obsession, I stand up and walk across my stained carpet that should have been replaced in the 70s to a worn table that holds a bottle of Jack with tumblers next to it.
Drinking the first pour in one large gulp, I pour the second to savor a little more slowly. The sound of sirens down below has me walking over to my window, happy to see they aren’t coming to my hotel but instead to the one across the street. Not that the authorities would show up on my doorstep. I pay a shit load of money to the cops to make sure we are left alone. I may have a pit of a hotel now, but I still offer the same level of security, privacy, and secrecy as I have always done, and that my father before me did.
Max is right. I am The Innkeeper, and my reputation is everything, although I’m doing a good job at fucking that up lately, and I know I need to get my shit together. The money isn’t the issue… far from it. In fact, I could tear this rat-infested building down and start fresh and compete with the best hotels in the city, or even the world, but I’m resisting. I’m fighting my reality. I’m holding on to my past, and no matter how hard I try to move on, I just can’t.
Noticing that the upload is complete, I return to my desk to save the pictures in the appropriate files. I don’t have the energy to make notes on what I observed tonight but will make a point of doing it first thing in the morning when my mind is fresher, and the smell of Katja isn’t haunting my nostrils.
Katja…
I stare at one of the photos where she’s standing with a glass of champagne in her hand, her smile painted so perfectly on her stunning face. Her cleavage is highlighted by the lamps in the room, and I can’t help but imagine what’s beneath the fabric of her dress. I can tell her breasts are the perfect size and can imagine my hands cupping them, my lips kissing the flesh, my tongue circling her nipples.
I’m rock-hard at the thought, and as sick of a bastard as I am, I unzip my pants and pull out my cock for release. I shouldn’t be jacking off to a picture of Katja, but then again, I’ve never been one to do what’s right.
The wicked side of me loves how Katja would be appalled knowing I’m picturing my cum smeared all over her face as I stroke my cock.
I fist my dick, pumping it up and down, imagining Katja’s mouth doing the work for me. Her lips… yes, I know they’d be able to suck me off like no one else. The thought of deep throating her sassy mouth so she has to gag around my girth brings my orgasm closer. If she was kneeling between my legs, I’d take hold of her hair and force her face all the way to the base of my dick, not letting up until tears smear the perfect mascara she wore tonight. Imagining her mewls being muffled by my thickness shoots pleasure to my balls.
Feeling completion nearing, I lick my palm so I can pump my cock harder and faster. Am I going to picture coming on her face or her tits… or both?
A knock on the door stops me mid-stroke.
Motherfucker!
If that’s someone complaining about the goddamn elevator—
“Dex,” Z’s voice calls from the other side. “Open up. I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”
Groaning, I tuck my cock back inside my pants and make my way to the door. Z isn’t one to pay me visits at this time of the night unless there truly is a problem I need to be made aware of or address. And the fact that he isn’t calling but rather coming to me in person means something.
I open the door and scan the hallway behind him to see if he’s alone. “What’s up?”
He takes a deep breath. “Katja.”
I open the door wider, so he can enter all the way. Closing the door behind him, I ask, “What about Katja?”
“It’s not good, man.”
A bolt of fear shoots through me. Did something happen? “Is she okay?”
He nods. “She’s okay. But I got a call just now from my contact over at The Whitney. Her husband—there’s a fucking huge issue.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“He’s dead.”
“Dead? What the fuck are you talking about? I just saw him.”
“The police are heading over to The Whitney now. It’s only a matter of time until the media does as well.”
I run my hand through my hair and go to the Jack bottle, pouring myself another glass as well as one for Z. “Well shit…”
“It’s not pretty,” Z adds. “The situation is…” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Fucked.”
“Does Katja know yet?” I ask.