Chapter 4

Tara

Mr. Hudson thinks he can play games with me? Fine. Let's play.

"Five minutes, ladies," a tall, dark, and insanely hot man says from the door. I'm still learning all the names of staff, but I'm pretty sure he's Dmitri.

The guy looks like he'd tear a woman in two and she'd beg him for a repeat.

"I hope I win just so I can climb that mountain," Deseri says wistfully. "My husband's tried to talk him into a ride between my thighs for two years and no amount of money or bribes have worked."

Smart. It ensures the highest bidding price during the ceremony. I wonder who came up with the no fucking the staff rules. Probably untouchable, unfuckable Ryker Hudson.

His reputation is part of what lured me here.

It's also what will make me win this competition.

I've studied the Monarch for months. Mr. Hudson runs the tightest ship I've ever seen. I can't get into half the rooms in the club without meeting certain requirements, and the clientele is top-notch executives, celebrities, and international entrepreneurs. And not a single person here makes a move without Ryker Hudson watching.

He's cultivated a lifestyle within the Monarch, and also a non-negotiable behavior strategy. Every member would bark like a dog if he commanded it. Hell, they'd piss on their own feet if Dmitri or any of the other Doms told them to I bet. Anything to get their approval. Whatever it takes to gain their affection and interest.

And I'm no better, it seems.

I can't help it. The Monarch is alluring and addictive. I'm forever on my best behavior just so I can get a little deeper down the rabbit hole. I can't imagine what it takes to run a sex club of this caliber, but I do know that requires a lot of time, money, and energy.

Compassion and ruthlessness too.

That's a heady combo—compassion and ruthlessness. I've spent many nights getting off to the image I've painted of the Club King himself. Ryker Motherfucking Hudson. Until last night, I thought my fantasy was pretty damn good. Then I met the real thing and Ryker doused imagination with a dark, delicious reality.

I'll stop at nothing to win tonight.

Stella leans forward and runs her middle finger along her bottom lip, dabbing on gloss. "I don't care how many times I have to try, I'll put myself on display for every member of this club knowing Mr. Hudson and his men are looking at me, too."

"Same, girl. I swear Mr. Hudson has the best fuck me eyes," Deseri says.

"I've orgasmed just fantasizing about him watching me on the cameras," chimes Jessie. "God, that man has the perfect mouth. I want to ride it. Badly."

Deseri fans herself. "I heard his dick's massive."

"Can't be bigger than Dmitri's," Stella says. "I saw a leaked picture of it once. It's incredible."

"Wait." I hold my hand up. "You mean no other Butterfly has verified it before?" Surely these women have talked about what it's like to be the Butterfly afterwards, right?

"No way," Jessie says, her tits jiggling when she scoots up in her chair. "You sign an NDA and only get to win once. Most of the old Butterflies leave after they've become one."

Stella lifts her tits higher in the built-in cups of her dress. "Yeah, because all other dick is ruined for them after they have Dmitri's."

"Or Vault's," Jessie sighs. "I heard he fucks like a machine."

"I heard he even uses a machine," says someone else. "That's who I'm picking if I win."

A machine? I'm realizing that I know even less about this place than I thought. It only sparks my curiosity and lust hotter.

"I want all of them, if I win," Deseri announces.

"All of them?" Stella gawks. "You'd die!"

Deseri shrugs. "I'm cool with that."

I can't believe this is the conversation we're having. They're talking about these men like they're cars to take for a joy ride, not people. Is everyone here desperate for their dicks?

A part of me grows furious about it. These men are people, not toys to play with. They're humans. And maybe they're okay with being objectified and desired, but maybe they aren't, and that's the real reason they remain untouchable until the Butterfly ceremony. Maybe it's not to make them more desirable, but because it makes them less used.

I don't know how I feel about this anymore.

Stop overthinking it. They're grown men. They chose to be in this club, just like me. Nothing happens here without the full consent of all parties involved.

I can't imagine Ryker or Dmitri ever letting someone do something they weren't okay with.

No, Ryker Hudson makes his men hard to get so he can drive the price up when the time comes. It"s simple economics. Supply and demand.

He's fucking brilliant.

God, that makes him even hotter.

"Has anyone ever been with Mr. Hudson?" Damn my mouth for opening.

"Not ever," Jessie groans.

"He's too good for us," a woman by the bathroom says. "I heard he used to be an escort. Maybe he's got a disease."

Someone throws a shoe at her. "You better shut your mouth. They can hear us, you know."

"And see us." Stella points at the camera in the corner by the door.

My cheeks blaze with heat. We're all on the meat market acting like we can't get good dick elsewhere, and putting on a show for a bunch of men who would pay us for the pleasure, regardless.

Still, my motives for wanting to be the Butterfly have nothing to do with good dick.

But my interest in Ryker Hudson has just reached a new level. If no one's had him before, why did he act like I could if I won?

Wait. Did he act like that, or did I make it up in one of my many fantasies I had last night while masturbating to the visual of that man's hand around my throat?

The door opens again and Dmitri, dressed in a black tux, announces, "It's time, ladies. Follow me."

All the women hurry to line up at the door and leave, squealing and laughing with excitement.

This is so weird and fucked up.

Dmitri holds the door and glowers at me. "You coming, Tara?"

"Give me a minute?"

He frowns. "One minute, sugar. Then you lose the opportunity."

Nodding, I watch him close the door and hurry to get my head in the game. At no point, since I made that deal with Ryker Hudson last night, did I think he'd rig this competition. If he had, I would have been disappointed because this club's reputation hinges on its owner's fealty and honor.

It's why I chose it.

It's also why I'll pick Mr. Hudson to be my Dom when I win.

So, if that man wants bold, I'll give it to him.

???

Ryker

As the women practically flutter down the hall, I notice I'm one short. No way. Did Tara back out?

Instead of relief, disappointment shoves into my chest. Christ, what's that say about me?

Dmitri shakes his head, whispering, "Tara asked for one more minute."

I'm sure it killed him to give it to her because it's against his rules. Excitement floods my veins knowing she's probably up to something. Again, I have no idea what this says about me. "Think she bought the bait?"

"No clue."

We split off once we're in the main room and I head to the stage used for larger exhibition scenes, while Dmitri and my other men take up their posts around the perimeter of the room.

Men and women murmur in their seats. The excitement is tangible. I wish I could bottle and sell it.

My hands grow clammy as I take the microphone and walk across to center stage. The entire club settles into silence, all my members waiting with bated breath for the ceremony to start. It's times like this I question how morally grey I really am.

I'm about to usher eleven women onto this stage, parade them around, and start bids as if they're cattle at the farmer's fair.

At least they volunteered.

And if I catch wind that any are here against their will, I'll blacklist their partner, beat the fuck out of them, and put the woman in touch with a counselor. Because if she was coerced into selling her body, God only knows what else she's been pressured into doing outside my club.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." I stroll across the stage, the spotlights making me break out in a fucking sweat. "Before we begin tonight, I want to thank all of you, especially our potential Butterflies, for allowing the Monarch the honor of entertaining you."

A round of applause roars throughout the room.

"As you know, we anonymously donate every dime spent on these auctions to a charity of my choosing. This year's funds will go to Safe Access, an organization that helps women and children out of abusive homes."

Another round of applause ensues.

As part of the bidding process, they've each signed an NDA that's separate from their membership one, agreeing that what happens tonight, like all other nights, stays here, and the announced charity foundation also remains a secret.

I worry that if some of these charities know where the money is coming from, they'll deny my check.

After going over the rules and procedures, I give the signal and the lights dim, making only one shine on my stage. "May I introduce the first stunning creature of the evening. Stella."

The crowd hushes as she saunters on stage, looking like she lives for the attention and knows how to keep it. She spins in a slow circle, showing off her snatched waist and ample tits. Stella works the stage like she's in the running to win a beauty pageant.

No matter who wins or loses tonight, each of these women gets a bolster of confidence being up on this stage, and I love that for them.

Time to make some motherfucking money.

"The bidding starts at one-hundred thousand dollars."

Several paddles fly up.

"Two hundred thousand."

A few paddles fall.

This goes on until Stella has racked up a hefty price. "The Butterfly Bid ends at six-hundred-and-ninety-seven thousand dollars. Well done, gorgeous." I kiss her hand and watch her saunter off the stage. I hope she's proud of the money she just raised for charity and isn't pouting in the corner, hoping her competition trips and knocks their teeth out.

Next, I invite Jessie to the stage. Then another woman, and another, and another. Finally, I only have one left.

Tara's at the edge of the stage, but I can't see her all that well with this damn spotlight blinding me.

But I'd be a liar to say I hate being on stage where I'll showcase her like a blue-ribbon pig. Especially since I see she didn't take my bait and change her fucking dress to one of the available gowns hanging in the dressing room. Blue isn't going to win. Men like red. Black. White.

I tried to help her. Oh well.

"Our last in the net is Tara."

The room stills, and my breath catches as she walks onto the stage. She's stunning. I might have given her shit for wearing a light blue gown, but it's the perfect shade for her. Her hair cascades down her back, the layers playfully curling in different directions.

Her eyes are bright and bluer than her gown. Her lips glisten with light pink gloss. Her cheeks are rosy, not from blush but from nerves.

She's an angel standing in a den of devils.

And I've suddenly turned into the most devious one of all. My dick hardens, making my tuxedo too stuffy and tight. Desperate for composure, I turn my attention to the audience and work hard to ignore Tara as she sashays across the stage in a circle, giving everyone a good look at what's up for bid.

"We'll start the bid at…" I gulp, my throat suddenly dryer than the Sahara.

"Five-hundred thousand dollars," Tara says, leaning into my microphone.

Then she yanks the straps of her dress, severing them, and the whole thing pools by her feet, leaving her bare, decadent, lush body on display for everyone to see.

A collective gasp ripples through the room as I stand there, stunned for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Paddles raise into the air. The price for her goes up, up, up even though I can't drag my gaze off her to look at the crowd.

"Bold enough for you?" she mutters behind clenched teeth as she keeps her gaze locked on the men bidding for her.

Well played, princess. I cock my brow and flick my gaze back to the crowd. "One million," I call out. "Do I have one million dollars?"

More paddles go up, and something in me claws out of my chest that feels a lot like possessiveness. I'm no longer the man with everything. I'm the bastard who's about to lose a toy I've yet to pull out of the package.

When the price for Tara escalates to two million dollars, a vicious, old demon crawls out of my good senses and takes charge of my actions.

"Two million, one-hundred thousand."

The last bidder puts down his paddle.

It infuriates me.

Tara is perfection and if they can't spare her one more hundred grand, then fuck him. Fuck them all.

"Two million, two hundred thousand," someone says, shaking me to my core.

That someone…

Is me.