The music crescendos as multicolored lights swirl amid the smoke-filled room. We’re hidden beneath the haze of it all—a part of the scene. And yet we’re right out in the open. Above every boring fuck here, taking what we want. Owning this life.
We are gods.
I push her fake blond hair aside so I can claim her skin. My teeth sink into her shoulder, my fingers branding her thigh as I force her closer, rocking against her harder and faster, frantic to be inside her with each hungry thrust.
Her soft moans vibrate against my chest. “Choose,” I say.
Fucking hell…as her gaze swings around the club, searching her victim out, I swear to God she soaks my hand nestled between her thighs.
“Him,” she says.
Gaze narrowed, I locate her victim right away. He’s easy to spot. I’ve noticed him, too. I draw London even closer as I watch the man dressed in a sleazy metallic V-neck grab a short blonde by the arm. He doesn’t manhandle her; not bold enough to draw attention. But his intentions are clear in his rigid frame.
“Perfect.” With great difficulty, I separate from London. I put enough space between us to adjust myself with a harsh groan. I’m still too tempted to pick her up and take her right against the wall of the club.
Her sound of protest sends a fiery ache down the length of my body, and I turn her around and pin her to the brick, breaths searing my chest. “The bad things I’m going to do to you…” I assure her.
Her eyes glisten with lust as she looks up at me, then she kisses my neck with the softest caress. I bite my lip, letting the pain ground me. “Don’t make me wait. Again.” She slips under my arm, and I catch her hand.
“Make a scene, baby,” I say, letting her fingers go one by one.
I brace my hands behind my neck as I lean against the wall. London’s hips sway, effortless sex appeal radiating off her like a neon sign inviting every man here to take notice.
London is sexy. She’s sultry sophistication. A breathtaking goddess. But London in disguise…with smoldering makeup and tight, formfitting clothes…is downright evil. If I didn’t already know what masquerades beneath, I’d have no willpower to deny her.
I have no willpower now.
Our target has little chance in escaping her snare. She stumbles right up to him, placing her hands on his chest. A drunken display as she laughs off her embarrassment. She’s too sloppy to stand on her own, using his arm to keep herself upright.
He offers her his drink, and she groggily waves it away. She’s had enough. His dark eyes gleam in the bouncing lights. She gives him one more drunken stroke along the arm before she staggers off.
His gaze never leaves her backside.
He looks around the club, taking note of anyone who could’ve witnessed the interaction before he sets his drink on the bar with a crisp bill. Within seconds, he heads toward the exit after London.
I push off the wall. Keeping my distance, I follow him through the club and out into the humid summer night.
My pulse speeds with lust for the hunt, my adrenaline surging with the power.
Alive.
The feeling only a truly free person can feel.
London is the music awakening my soul. She’s the reason my heart beats. I’m alive for her—I’m free because of her, and now we’re unstoppable.
2
Wicked Game
London
The balmy night air sticks to my skin, causing my silk blouse to cling to my chest. I stagger my steps, making sure I appear the helpless, intoxicated victim. The closer the heavy footfalls sound, the more my heart rate ramps.
The man behind me is not a victim.
He chose his fate the second he followed me out of the club.
During one of our first sessions, Grayson said his victims were akin to predators stalking the woods in search of prey. If they fell into the hunter’s trap, they were in the wrong place to begin with.