7. Chapter 7

seven

Clara

F ucking Hell.

In two minutes, I’m on the dance floor, scanning the crowd around me, searching for my target from earlier, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Men think they’ve got the power, but they don’t know shit. I’m the one who decides who I fuck. Not them.

I know. I’m dressed to kill, but that just means every loser in the club thinks they’ve got a chance.

A man dressed in a suit, his face hidden behind a black, beaked mask, walks straight toward me like he’s fucking death incarnate.

With a flick of my wrist, I knock his hand away, my eyes burning with fire.

“Fuck off,” I growl. But the target I’m looking for? He’s gone.

Fucking vanished.

Where the hell is he?

Goddammit.

The one guy in this place who might be worth my time, and he fucking disappears.

Around me, sweaty bodies grind against each other, hands groping, and mouths locked in sloppy kisses. In the corner, two chicks are going to town on some dude’s tiny dick, taking turns sucking him off like he’s the second coming of Christ.

Must be some rich prick throwing around Daddy’s money for a little ego boost. Not that I’m judging.

I’m here for a good time, not a therapy session.

I elbow my way to the bar, the burn of frustration rising in my throat. This is what I get for being picky. Should’ve just grabbed the first halfway decent guy I saw and been done with it.

“A bottle of the Perrier-Jou?t Belle Epoque,” I demand, slapping a black card on the counter. “And make sure it’s the ‘02. I’m not in the mood for anything less than perfection tonight.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods, reaching under the counter to pull out a sleek black bottle with a silver label. Stretching up for a champagne flute, the idiot manages to drop it, shattering crystal as it lands behind the bar.

Goddamn fool!

Just another fuck-up in a day that’s been nothing but a clusterfuck. Everything’s been a mess, and now, this simple drink order is turning into a circus.

The bartender, with shaky hands, finally manages to yank the cork out. I’m ready to drown my frustrations when I feel a presence at my elbow.

“Well now, what’s a pretty little thing like you doing all alone?”

I turn to see a grown-ass man in an Elvis costume leering at me, his rhinestone-studded hips cocked in what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive pose.

“I’m not alone,” I say flatly. “I’m with my best friend, Monsieur Perrier-Jou?t. And trust me, he’s more than enough company.”

Elvis clutches at his chest in mock hurt. “Aw, don’t be like that, darlin’. The King just wants to show you a good time.”

“Sorry, I’m not into necrophilia.” I take a sip of the Perrier-Jou?t, savoring the way the rich, complex flavors dance on my tongue. “So why don’t you go find yourself a nice gold lamé groupie and leave me the fuck alone?”

His eyes narrow, the playful facade slipping. “Listen here, you little—”

But I’m already moving, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back until he yelps in pain.

“No, you listen, you cheap Vegas lounge act,” I hiss in his ear. “I’m not interested. So take a fucking hint and walk away before I break something a lot more valuable than your wrist.”

I shove him away, taking grim satisfaction in the way he stumbles and nearly face-plants on the sticky floor. He scrambles upright, his cheeks flushed with anger and humiliation.

“Crazy bitch!” he spits, but he’s already backing away, hands raised in surrender. “Forget it. You’re not worth the trouble.”

I watch him go, a smirk playing on my lips. Damn straight, I’m not.

But my victory is short-lived. No sooner has Elvis left the building than another contender slides into his place, all slick charm and megawatt smile.

“Quite the show you put on there,” he says, his voice smooth as the champagne I’m drinking. “I’m impressed.”

I give him a flat look. “And I should care about impressing you why, exactly?”

He laughs, seemingly unfazed by my hostility. “Fair point. Let me rephrase.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Vincent. And from the way you just handled that loser, I’m guessing you’re not the kind of woman who appreciates bullshit or empty flattery.”

I eye his hand warily for a moment before taking it in a firm grip. “Clara. And you’re right. I don’t.”

“Good.” His smile sharpens into something a little more real, a little more dangerous. “Because I’ve never been one for bullshit either. I prefer… honesty.”

There’s weight to that last word, a dark promise that sends a shiver over my skin. This Vincent is more than just another pretty face. He’s got an edge to him, a sharpness I recognize all too well.

It’s the same sharpness I see in the mirror every goddamn day.

“Honesty, huh?” I take another sip of the drink, letting the bubbles burst on my tongue. “All right then, Vince. Let’s see how honest you can be.”

His grin widens, and I catch a flash of teeth behind his parted lips. “It would be my absolute pleasure, Clara.”

Oh, I just bet it would. But as intriguing as Vincent may be, he’s not the one I’m looking for tonight.

No, my sights are set on someone else, someone darker and more dangerous. The man with the piercing eyes and wicked smile, the one who set my blood on fire with a single glance.

Vincent leans in, a playful spark in his green eyes, undeterred by my cool demeanor. “I’m a regular here, you know. Maybe I can show you around, or we can just skip the tour and get straight to the fun parts.”

I study him closer now, noting the youthful sharpness of his jaw and the earnest gleam in his eyes. He’s attractive, sure, but too fresh, too eager—like a puppy. Not my style. I need someone with a bit more grit, a bit more darkness in their soul.

Just relax. You’re here to have fun, get some orgasms .

I take another swig of champagne.

“Sorry to break your heart, Vincent, but I prefer my men older.” I wink at him as I get onto my feet.

I stand up, wobbling slightly on my stilettos, champagne buzzing through my veins. Suddenly, a strong hand grabs me possessively by the waist. I spin around, ready to tell whatever asshole it is to fuck off, but I find myself staring into Aston’s piercing eyes.

His signature smile is plastered on his cruel, gorgeous face, but there’s a calculating gleam in his gaze that makes my skin tingle. He turns his attention to Vincent, who looks like he wants to protest.

“Run along now, boy,” Aston commands, his voice dripping with disdain. “The lady’s with me.”

Vincent opens his mouth, but something in Aston’s expression makes him think better of it. He slinks away with his tail between his legs.

Fucking puppy.

I sway on my feet, the alcohol hitting me harder than I anticipated. Aston’s grip tightens on my waist, steadying me. He leans in close, his breath hot against my ear.

“Careful, princess. Wouldn’t want you to fall.”

I scoff and try to pull away, but his hold is iron-clad. “I’m fine. I just need some goddamn peace and quiet.”

Aston chuckles darkly. “Oh, I think I have just the place.” He snaps his fingers and a door I hadn’t noticed before swings open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. “Your VIP room awaits.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I drawl, letting him guide me toward the door.

As we stride down the corridor, two hulking bodyguards flanking us like shadows, I can’t help but notice the sounds emanating from behind each door we pass. Muffled moans and pleasured cries mix with the rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh, painting a vivid picture in my champagne-soaked mind.

“These are the private rooms,” Aston explains, his hand still firmly gripping my waist. “Where our guests can explore their deepest, darkest desires without judgment.”

I catch a glimpse of the stoic security personnel lining the hallway, their muscular arms crossed over broad chests, earpieces in place. They look like they’ve been plucked straight from a fucking action movie, all buzz cuts and dark shades. It’s clear they’re here to enforce the rules, to make sure no one crosses the line from pleasure to pain without consent.

As we continue down the hallway, the cacophony of carnal sounds grows louder, more intense. The harsh crack of a whip, followed by a sharp, breathy cry, sends a jolt straight to my core. My cunt clenches, desperate for friction, for relief. Beneath the snap of leather on skin, I can hear the obscene squelch of a hard cock pistoning in and out of a soaked pussy, the lurid slap of heavy balls against slick flesh.

My cheeks burn, arousal warring with shock. I can’t lie; it’s getting me hot. My panties are soaked; my poor cunt is dying for a release only a big, hard cock satisfy.

Aston just smirks, unfazed. “Like what you hear?”

“No comment,” I snap. But the sounds are seared into my brain now. I have a feeling they’ll be fueling my fantasies for a while.

We reach a set of golden doors at the end of the hall, emblazoned with intricate filigree. Aston nods at the guards, and they push the doors open, revealing the most decadent room I’ve ever seen.

Mirrors cover every inch of the ceiling, reflecting the massive bed in the center, draped in sheets of black silk. Sex toys and BDSM gear line the walls, gleaming in the low light. It’s like a fucking sex dungeon for the rich and depraved.

“Quite the setup you’ve got here,” I remark, trying to sound unimpressed even as my pussy throbs insistently.

Aston smirks, leading me over to a plush velvet couch. “Only the best for our VIP guests.” He snaps his fingers again, and a scantily clad waitress appears with a tray of drinks. Aston plucks a glass filled with a shimmering fuchsia liquid and puts it in my hand. “Here, this will help you… relax.”

I eye the drink suspiciously, swirling it in my glass. “What the fuck is it?”

“Just a little cocktail made special for you. It’ll make you feel good, princess. I promise.”

I shrug and knock back the drink, wincing as it burns down my throat. It tastes like pineapple and something else, something sharp and chemical.

The room starts to tilt and spin, colors bleeding together in a kaleidoscopic haze. Aston’s grinning face swims in my vision as he leans in close.

Fuck, something’s wrong.

“There now, isn’t that better?” His voice sounds far away, echoing as if from underwater.

I try to stand, but my legs won’t cooperate.

Fuck! Shit!

Panic claws at my throat as the realization hits me.

The drink! He must have… drugged me…