Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
I emerge into a fucking dungeon. Literal torches hang on intervals at the walls, albeit the expensive, electric kind. A brunette hangs suspended in a leather strap cage. Two men are in the process of strapping a raven-haired beauty to a bondage horse. A man is on his hands and knees in a cage, a ball gag in his mouth, while a woman in latex with a riding crop circles the cage, speaking to a small crowd gathered around. Another woman is bound in intricate rope, a man gently stroking her hair while he speaks to a man with a leashed woman at his feet.
I quickly scan the crowd but don't find Parker. Thank God.
"I'm not interested." The soft voice freezes me in my tracks. I know it. I've been listening to it every day for months. Sometimes, the damn thing haunts my dreams.
Jamie Knight, sports-gossip reporter extraordinaire.
She's the prettiest little thing I've ever seen. Her gray eyes and dimples make me fucking crazy. So do her curves. Unfortunately for me, she's about as off-limits as they come for an athlete. The woman knows every embarrassing story there is to know about us. As far as most are concerned, she's public enemy numero uno.
And I'm fucking wild about her anyway.
I whip my head to the left, convinced the universe is screwing with me.
It's not.
Her blonde hair hangs in curls around her face, her lips red and kissable. Even though she's wearing a demi-mask, I'd know those lips anywhere. Those curves too. They aren't hidden by a goddamn business suit tonight, that's for damn sure. Her tits practically spill out of her low-cut red dress. It hugs every inch of her before ending mere inches below her luscious ass, leaving her thick thighs and long legs on display.
The sight of her does what nothing else in the place has accomplished all night. My cock rages to life, pressing insistently against the confines of my zipper as white-hot lust rips through me.
Dammit all to hell.
How many times have I fantasized about her while watching her on TV? While watching her walk her sexy ass across the arena? While lying in bed at night?
Too many to count.
"Are you here to play, or are you taken, little one?" The asshole leaning over her reaches out, tugging on one of her curls as he tries to slide his free hand around her waist. "Because I'd fucking love to get you on the end of my leash."
She stiffens, her gaze darting around as if seeking help.
I don't think about it. I don't even hesitate. I react, storming in their direction as if she's mine to defend.
"You forget the fucking rules or something?" I growl, grabbing his hand in my fist and forcing him back a step. "No means motherfucking no. And you don't touch what doesn't fucking belong to you, asshole."
"Ah, sorry, man," he says, trying to pry his hand out of my grip. "I was just talking to her."
"She told you she wasn't interested. That means you stop fucking talking and move along," I growl. "It doesn't mean you keep bugging her. And it damn sure doesn't mean you put your goddamn hands on her."
"It's okay, Jonas," Jamie whispers from beside me.
It's not okay, though. I may not fuck around in sex clubs, but I know the rules. Assholes like this don't learn unless they're taught. And part of me desperately wants to teach him right now. He touched her, frightened her. No one touches what should belong to me.
And goddamn, I wish she belonged to me.
"Is there a problem over here?"
I glance to the right to see a man nearly my size standing half a step away, a gold button on his lapel identifying him as a dungeon monitor. Good. Someone with some fucking authority around here.
"Yeah, there is," I growl, ignoring the curious stares shot in our direction. "Fuckstick here doesn't seem to comprehend the rules."
"I said I was sorry," he mumbles, still trying to pry his hand out of my grip. That's not going to happen, though. I've got about six inches and seventy pounds on him.
"What happened?" the monitor asks.
"He has a fucking problem with keeping his hands to himself and taking no for an answer."
The monitor scowls, his gaze shifting to Jamie. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she whispers.
"You're out," the monitor says, jerking a thumb toward the stairwell. "Let's go."
I release Fuckstick with a shove, sending him sprawling on his ass. His mask slips free, and I get a good, long look at his face. Bloodshot dark eyes, sharp, hawkish features. I commit each one to memory.
"If you ever touch her again, I'll break the fucking hand next time," I promise as he slips his mask back into place, sneering at me.
He bodychecks me on his way up the stairwell. Jackass. The dungeon master follows him up the stairs, ensuring he exits the premises post haste.