I feel the craving inside me rear up, dark and determined.
She’s ready. She’s mine.
I unzip my pants, and hear her breath catch with desperate anticipation.
“You’ve been a good girl,” I murmur, stroking her cheek. Victory surges through me, hot and fast. “You can have your reward.”
In one swift motion, I drag her to her feet and bend her over the bed. Pinning her down, I thrust my ravenous cock deep into her slick, aching pussy.
She moans in surrender as she comes for me, completely helpless, her cunt clenching wildly around me as her body breaks wide open.
The sound hums through my bloodstream. Her submission is my drug.
I finally let go.
ONE: ISABELLE
“Where are we going? Why won’t you tell me?”
Brent doesn’t answer my questions, he just drives the Maserati like he’s in the Indy 500. He screeches down the dark Manhattan streets with a scowl on his face.
I grip the inside door and try to remember how many drinks he’s had.
“Maybe you should slow down?” I suggest softly. “You don’t want to get pulled over. Not after all the trouble you’ve had this year.”
Trouble is an understatement. His father died a few months ago, and left the Ashcroft fortune to a daughter nobody even knew he had. Brent did everything he could to win the money back—and nearly went to jail.
But it’s the wrong thing to say right now, when he’s wound up like this. His scowl deepens. I close my eyes and say a prayer as he hurtles through another amber light, until finally he pulls up to the curb with a screech.
I open my eyes. We’re in the middle of nowhere: a sketchy street in a deserted part of town. “What is this place?”
Brent gives me a cruel grin. “You’ll like it, baby, I promise.”
I slowly get out of the car. I thought we were heading to one of his favorite nightclubs, so I dressed up: a short metallic mini-dress, high stiletto heels. He likes to show me off and see every head turn when we walk in the door. I sometimes feel like I’m performing, putting on an act and pretending to be someone I’m not, but it always makes him happy.
It’s easier when he’s happy.
Brent takes my arm and leads me to a discreet door in the front of an old warehouse building. We step through it, and my confusion grows.
Inside, there’s a luxurious lobby area. Dark velvets, polished wood, antique chandeliers. A beautiful woman in a lace dress waits behind the desk.
Brent strides over. “Brent Ashcroft,” he announces. There was a time when that name would open doors all over the city, but she just gives him a polite smile.
“Are you a member here?”
Brent glares back. “I’m invited.”
“Yes, of course,” she soothes him, seeing the expression on his face. “Has your host checked in already? I can have them fetched.”
“No need.” There’s a voice from the staircase, and a balding guy in a pinstripe suit arrives. It’s one of Brent’s old college friends. Paxton, I think.
I’ve never liked him. He’s from old money, the kind Brent is always trying to impress. Whenever we’ve hung out together, Paxton always drinks too much and gropes the waitresses—and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl.
He comes over to greet us, shaking Brent’s hand and then kissing me on both cheeks. His hands linger on my waist too long. I try not to shrink away.
“Are you ready?” he asks, a gleam in his eyes.
“She will be,” Brent answers for me, before I can get a word out. “I can’t wait to look around. See if this place lives up to the hype.”
The receptionist passes us some legal forms to sign. Brent scribbles without a glance, but I try to read the small print.
The Underground will not be held liable for damage or injury.... you hereby waive all rights to legal action....
“What is this place again?” I ask, my heart beating faster.
Brent fixes me with a look. “Don’t worry about it.”
Still, I hesitate. He sighs. “Are you going to be a fucking pussy again?” he whispers, an edge to his voice now. He glances to where Paxton is trying to flirt with the receptionist. “Don’t fuck this up for me, OK? I need him to invest in my new big idea.”
Brent gets a new big idea every week. And each time, he swears, this is the one: the company that will launch him back to his former glory.
I sign the waiver with a shaking hand. I wish I hadn’t come out tonight, but Brent insisted. Ever since he lost his money, he’s been living at my apartment: driving my car, using my credit cards. He loses his temper all the time now, ranting about his ‘bad luck’ and all the people who’ve conspired to bring him down. I miss the way he used to be, but I know he’s still a good man under all that frustration.
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