Chapter 1

Ryker

Watching people fuck each other's brains out is boring. It didn't use to be that way, but after five years of owning a sex club, I can honestly say not much gets me excited anymore.

The Monarch is known for quality service, exceptional experiences, and above all, supreme discretion.

Bottom line: I only cater to the elite.

Don't kid yourself into thinking this line of work is all whipped cream covered tits and blowjobs. It's hard work that never ends. I don't get vacations. I don't have a social life. Hell, I don't even have time to sleep most nights.

No amount of money I make now can relieve the tension that's been my constant companion for over a decade. While most men my age are having fun with their friends, going on vacations, driving to their nine-to-fives with a little wifey to go home to later, I'm in the trenches of the sex industry, forever defending my territory, making sure my club stays top notch, and all members are safe and respectful when they're within my walls.

This isn't just a business. It's a lifestyle. The Hell I've made sure to become king of. Between going over invoices, meeting with clients, and researching members to make sure they're staying on the up and up, the Monarch has a reputation to uphold, and so do I.

It's not easy to get into my club. It's even harder to remain in it.

I demand respect and the only way to ensure it is to make everyone obey my motherfucking rules.

One fuck up and I'll blacklist you. That goes for what you do in my club… and out of it.

"Good evening, Mr. Hudson."

"How are you tonight, Sophie?" I bring my employee's hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles like a gentleman always should. Tonight, she's wearing a black leather one-piece, stiletto thigh high boots, and a gas mask. Last night she was in a pink, furry bunny suit.

"I can't believe you recognize me under this." She pulls off her mask and laughs, but it's a nervous one. Most of my employees are a little scared of me, which I prefer. It keeps them in check and makes them damn good at their jobs because most don't have another place to go.

Sophie came to me during college, looking for a job. I gave her one cleaning the club, but that didn't last. She was too curious. Too young. Too talented and quick to learn. Four years later, she's one of my best entertainers. No one would guess this woman is a rocket scientist by day, and a Fem Domme at night.

"The Butterfly Ceremony is tomorrow night," she says, like I need the reminder. "Do you want me to come in for it?"

I shake my head. "I thought you had tickets to see Phantom of the Opera."

Sophie's bottom lip juts out in a pout. "I tried to score tickets but missed them, so I'm totally open if you need extra bodies to rev the crowd up and make them hungrier."

Reaching into the breast pocket of my suit, I pull out two tickets and hold them between my fingers. "Oh look. I just happen to have two box seats for the final showing."

Her eyes light up. "Oh my god, Ryker!" Then she back tracks quickly. "I mean, Mr. Hudson."

Good girl. Ryker is fine out of the club, but within these walls, I'm Mr. Hudson or Sir. Lifting a brow, I fan the tickets between my fingers. "Still want to work tomorrow night?"

Panic flits in her eyes because she's not sure what the right answer should be. Sophie's been pulling more than her weight here lately, and I'd rather she enjoy herself out in the wild than in here. "Have fun," I say, kissing her cheek. "Bring a friend with you, okay?"

She does too much by herself and I'm worried about her.

"Thank you so much!" Sophie leaps to hug me and stops herself. Clearing her throat, she drops her head and says, "I appreciate this, Mr. Hudson."

I know she does. "Get back to work."

Sophie tugs her gas mask back on her face and heads in the opposite direction of me, but I don't miss the way she fist-bumps the air as she scurries to the elevators. Okay, it's time to get back to fucking work. Throwing my weight into the heavy double doors of my office, I storm in, ready for the night.

"Good evening, Mr. Hudson." My best bodyguard, Dmitri, stands behind my desk with his hands clasped, and a four-thousand-dollar tailored suit stretched across his body.

"Who's on the radar tonight?" I drop into my chair and start scanning the monitors.

Running a tight ship means that nothing, I mean nothing, gets past me and my men in this club. If you make one wrong move, you're out. No second chances. When you have a room designed to suspend someone in the air with only their body modifications, you can't afford fuck ups. Same for the bedrooms used for gang bangs and machinery.

"Everyone's behaving. But it's early." It's six o'clock, which means the Monarch only opened two hours ago. "I thought you had an appointment?"

"I do." My gaze sails across the four monitors until it lands on a particular room with a small group of voyeurs. There's a blonde standing in the corner, closest to the door, watching a tied-up woman get fucked by two men on a bench in the middle of the room.

I've seen her here before—the watcher, I mean, not the threesome. She never takes part in the activities—because trust me, I've waited for it to happen. She reminds me of a Luna moth—graceful, ethereal, eye-catching, and doesn't stay long. Whenever she's here, she's a distraction to me. I follow her from room to room on my surveillance feed, but she only ever seems to observe. I've never caught her talking to anyone, fucking anyone, and she's never come to one of our BDSM classes.

"This woman…" I tap the screen. "You know anything about her other than what's on her file?"

Dmitri casually leans over for a better look. Bracing his hands on my desk, his lips press in a tight line and his jaw ticks. After a few tense heartbeats, he stands straight again. "No."

"Call Vault in here."

Dmitri quietly talks in his discreet headset and Vault walks through my door a minute later.

That's another thing I demand in my club—promptness and efficiency. Time is money.

"Do you know anything about her?" I tap the figure on the security monitor again.

Vault squints as he sifts through his mental filing cabinet. This man is a goddamn genius with a photographic memory. He sees it once, and it's locked in his mind's vault forever. Hence the nickname. He's also the one who does all the monitoring of our members when they're outside the club.

"Tara Reed. Age twenty-nine, Berkeley graduate, no known food allergies, enjoys baking shows and has both a praise and degradation kink."

My guys are worth their weight in gold around here, but Vault isn't telling me anything I haven't already memorized from her membership application.

I study her posture. Tara stands stick straight in the back of the exhibition room, as if holding herself back from joining in. Or maybe she's shocked by what she sees. Hard to say.

She looks like a little tart—sweet, decadent, and delicate.

Devour-able.

Leaning back in my chair, I steeple my fingers and continue staring at her. "Where does she work?"

"Not listed. And no socials either."

She could be a socialite of some kind. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest.

"She's pretty quiet and reserved when she's here, which could suggest inexperience." Vault walks back around to the other side of my desk. "Or maybe she just loves to watch and takes the ideas home and puts them to use there. Hard to say. I can run more checks online and see what I can dig up."

For some disturbing reason, I don't want Vault getting the privilege of hunting down the details of this woman's life. "Don't bother." She's not doing anything wrong. No need to waste time on her.

I've done enough of that already.

Switching topics, I tap my mouse and open another program. "Are we all set for the Butterfly Ceremony tomorrow night?"

Vault nods. "For sure."

"How many are in the net?"

"Ten."

I cock my brow. Ten is good. Not the most I've had, but more than last year's selection. "Is her room ready?"

"Of course." Vault's grin makes him look like a wolf. "I've made sure all brackets, hooks, straps, and bolts are secure. Closets are filled, and the bath is stocked as well."

"How many are on the bidding sheet?" I look at the spreadsheet I've pulled up, but Dmitri answers before I can scroll down for the number.

"One-hundred and two."

I school my expression, hiding my shock. There are only two hundred members in my club, and most don't visit my establishment more than a handful of times a year. Tomorrow night will be packed. "Are we prepared to entertain that many at once?"

"Absolutely." Vault unwraps a lollipop and shoves it in his mouth. "I'm betting most of them will leave once the auction's over with, though."

"Order ten more cases of condoms, just in case. And get another three cases of lube." Losers like to lick their wounds, or, around here, get them licked.

My gaze flicks back to Tara. She's left the exhibition room and I catch her on another camera, walking down a hallway.

Dmitri's low timbre rumbles behind me. "Need anything else, or can I get my night started?" D is always eager to pace the halls and maintain the safety of my guests.

"No. You're good. Thanks." My boys shut the doors behind them, plunging me into silence. I can't drag my gaze away from Tara on the screen. Her heart-shaped ass sashays in her tight dress to a rhythm I enjoy. Her heels are thin, tall, and expensive going off the dark soles. All that long hair cascading down her back in loose curls makes me want to pull it. My dick twitches at the thought.

I don't get involved with the members of my club. I'm off limits. Always. No exception.

It makes my growing obsession with this woman fucking pointless.

Where are you going now?

I pull up a camera from a different angle. Tara stops Sophie just outside the elevator. The two of them talk and then Sophie nods just before they split off again. Tara takes the elevator alone and I quickly pull up another screen to watch her descend to the ground level. Her head's down, damnit. I want to see her face.

"Look up at me."

I've got cameras everywhere in this place. Hundreds of them, in fact, to ensure everyone in my club remains safe—and behaves themselves. There's a well-paid team in another room, down the hall from my office, whose only job is to monitor every inch of the Monarch and alert security if something goes wrong.

So why am I doing their job instead of preparing for the small fortune I plan to make tomorrow night at the Butterfly Ceremony?

Because Tara fucking Reed keeps snagging my attention. And she hasn't looked up at the camera once. She's avoiding it.

Many of my clients are socialites and require the utmost privacy for the debauchery they perform in my club. Tara being in that pool of filthy-rich-high-and-mighties wouldn't surprise me.

What's a gorgeous creature like her doing with brains and a paycheck? Most women in this place have a trust fund, a sugar daddy, or both. They don't earn a dime unless it's on their knees.

Tara has officially piqued my interest. I might just have to greet her in person.

Shit, what time is it? Pushing away from my desk, I realize I only have thirty minutes to make it to my appointment. Looks like Tara's little meet and greet will have to be another night.

Taking the back exit, I rush over to my car and leave the Monarch's property and Tara behind. City traffic is a motherfucker tonight with the road construction, but I make it to my destination with two minutes to spare and pull up to an old building that stands like a megalith of doom amidst a dazzling city skyline. My heart thuds heavily in my chest.

Practicing my breathing exercises, I climb out of my car and button my suit jacket. With a charming, give-me-what-I-want smile plastered on my face, I head straight for the woman waiting for me.

"Mr. Hudson," the realtor says with a toothy smile. "I'm so happy you could make it on such short notice."

I shake her hand and maintain my charm. "It's incredible of you to fit me in like this. I can't thank you enough."

"Well, the owner is in a hurry to sell, and I remembered you mentioning once that if this one ever went up for sale, to let you know immediately."

My chest tightens. "Shall we?" I swoop my hand, gesturing at the door with the padlock.

"Oh, h-hang on." The realtor's eyes light up as she looks behind me. "Miss Reed, it's wonderful to see you again."

"How are you, Moira?"

The blood in my veins freezes when Tara Reed walks up and kisses my realtor on the cheek.

"Sorry," Tara says, shaking the loose curls from her face before flashing me a smile that's brighter than the sun. "I'm Tara Reed, from Brisbane Realty." Her gaze sails up and down my stiff frame. "And you are?"

Your biggest competition."Ryker Hudson." It takes every ounce of strength to remain calm and shake her hand like a civilized gentleman. Her grip is much stronger than I expect. She smells sweet, like candy.

But now that I know who she works for, and that she might take what I want, I no longer want to suck on her. I want to chew her up and spit her out.

Being devour-able can easily be a woman's best trait and worst flaw. Tara better watch who she plays hardball with.

Nothing in her file said she was from Brisbane Realty. Either she hid the information, or she's a new hire and her file hasn't updated. Either way, I'm fucking pissed.

"Sorry I had to double book the two of you," Moira says sheepishly. "I'm leaving for a cruise in the morning, and this was the only way I could see you both."

Time is money, I can appreciate that. Except why do I feel like I'm about to get screwed somehow?

I want to expand. Invest. I've got the money, and this place is what I want. I can't let Brisbane Realty or even Clyde-Smith Properties get their claws in it first. They already own half the city. Why the fuck do they want this building? It's a shithole.

And it's going to be my shithole before I leave here tonight. I don't care what it takes.

"I'll keep this short and sweet," I say. "I'm ready to make my offer."

Moira's eyes round with surprise. "But, Mr. Hudson, don't you want to see inside first?"

"Yes, Mr. Hudson." Tara flashes me her pearly whites. "Let's take a tour, then we can play."

Play? Play? This isn't a game to me, but if Miss Reed wants to make it one, I have no problem giving her what she wants.

And I'm going to fucking win.