Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 13200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 66(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 44(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 66(@200wpm)___ 53(@250wpm)___ 44(@300wpm)
"Maybe I should offer Olive Crosby a job working right alongside her then," Malachi snaps, catching me off-guard.
How the fuck did he find out about her? I haven't even spoken her name aloud outside the confines of my own bedroom.
"Surprised?" He cocks a brow, nodding to the security camera over my desk. "I have access to the same security system you do, motherfucker. I've seen how often you stalk her social media."
Well, fuck. What else has he seen? Heard? He knows what I do online. I haven't made a big secret of it to him or our youngest brother, Maddox. They both think it's hysterical that I'm social media's resident sex expert, especially since I've been celibate for years. But I'd rather not know my goddamn brother is watching me jerk off to videos of Olive.
Some shit, they don't need to know. This is one of those things.
"I don't ask questions about Olive. You don't say shit about Haven. That's the deal," Malachi says.
"Fine." I hold up my hands in surrender, shaking my head. "I'm blocking your access to the camera in my office, though, you nosy bastard."
He flips me the bird, then props a hip against the corner of my executive desk, his arms crossed. "What question are you answering next?"
"How do I tell my husband that I want him to tie me up and have rough, dirty sex with me?" I quote.
"Exactly like that," Malachi snorts. "He won't say no if he's fucking smart."
He's not wrong. Most people are afraid to ask for what they really want in the bedroom because they fear being judged or rejected. But there is no shame in having needs, even if they're kinky. I've learned that much owning Dionysus. People come to the club looking for any number of things, but in the end, they all boil down to one very simple reality. People want to be understood and accepted. They want to know they aren't alone in feeling the way they do or wanting the things they want. They want the freedom that comes with being wholly themselves in the bedroom.
If this woman's husband has any sense, he'll give her exactly what she wants in a safe environment with pre-established ground rules.
There is no greater release than that.
Or so I've heard. Truth is, I can answer sex questions all goddamn day. I've owned a BDSM Club for over a decade. There isn't much I haven't seen. But I've never found what I was looking for within its walls. It's been five or six years since I even tried meeting anyone.
Nothing and no one, no kink, or fantasy ever interested me enough to try until her. Until Olive. She's haunting my every thought.
So why the fuck haven't I done anything about it yet?
Because our worlds are nothing alike, that's why. She's a professional dancer—and I don't mean a stripper. I mean she dances with some of the most well-known artists in the world. Dragging her into my world could end in disaster for her.
"I've got shit to do." Malachi steps away from my desk. "Don't expect to see me for the rest of the afternoon."
"See ya, fucker." I flip him off as he heads for the door.
He pauses at the door. "Not that you asked me or anything because you never fucking do, but she isn't going to stay single forever. Maybe you should do something about that."
I grunt in response. Not that he waits long enough to hear it. He strides out of my office, closing the door behind him. I stare at the door for a long moment, his warning bouncing around in my mind. He's right, goddammit. Sooner or later, some other motherfucker will see what I do. He'll try to take what belongs to me.
No. Hell no. No one touches her but me.
I open my laptop again. As soon as it wakes from sleep, her video resumes right where it left off.
I don't even hesitate to smash the follow button this time. It's been long enough. It's time to claim my baby girl.
Ready or not, Tiny Dancer, you're going to be mine.
Chapter Two
Olive
"Truth or dare."
I stop mid-pirouette with a groan, facing my best friend and social media manager, Kenzie, who is seated cross-legged on the edge of the floor at the dance studio, scrolling through her phone. She peeks at me over the top, mischief in her green eyes.
"I hate you," I say, panting for breath. I've been going full-out for the last hour, trying to perfect a new piece of choreography I'm working on. It's a tough routine, but I'm determined to nail it before tomorrow's group video.
"You freaking love me." Kenzie smirks at me, flashing her dimples. "Now, answer the question, Olive."
"Why?" I stride toward her, bending to scoop my water bottle from the floor. "Every time you ask me to play truth or dare, it's because you're up to something. It rarely ends well for me," I remind her. It's the truth. She's been my best friend since elementary school. She knows all my deepest, darkest secrets.