Page 67 of Ryker

Huffing a little laugh, Ryker pushes away from me, leaving me cold where I’d just been burning. “Get your ass up to our suite, Butterfly. This scene is over.”

???

His punishment leaves me wanting.

Literally.

I expected him to fuck me hard and mercilessly up in our suite. Spank me. Shove his cock down my throat until I gag. Something.

Instead, I’m left with this ache between my thighs and a sinking sensation in my belly that resembles rejection. I’d completely forgotten we were meeting someone at nine tonight, but Ryker hasn’t. We got to our suite, and he headed straight for the shower. I shamelessly pressed my ear to the door, hoping to catch him jerking off, but I couldn’t hear anything other than his music playing. He got out and dressed in a suit that Dmitri hung outside our door for him.

The drive was dead silent, too. Hell, I’m shocked he even took my hand to help me out of the fucking car once we arrived at our destination, which is a dilapidated night club.

“You will not speak, Butterfly. And you will keep your eyes cast to the floor at all times unless I give permission otherwise. Understood?”

My mixed emotions swirl in my gut, making me queasy. “Yes, Sir.”

I know what anger feels like—both from the receiving and giving end. Ryker’s attitude makes me believe he actually loathes me and, somehow, that’s a million times worse. Maybe this is my punishment for talking back, for challenging him, for pushing the idea that I might very well like whatever depraved shit he has in his mind.

Fine.

He wants to play. I’ll play.

I’m no stranger to being seen, not heard. In my line of business, I’m usually the only female in the conference room, which means I go unacknowledged and underestimated often. I prefer it that way. It’s better than being the center of some old man’s attention and undervalued as the powerhouse I really am.

He places his hand on the small of my back, ushering me through the red double-doors, and we’re met with the stench of stale cigarettes and cheap leather. As far as night clubs go, this one seriously sucks. I don’t even think it’s running anymore.

Without saying a word to each other, Ryker brings me into the back, through an impressive sized kitchen, down a flight of steps, and into a small room. My heart’s pounding at this point. Where the hell are we going? What kind of meeting has to happen in a room this far removed from the land of the living?

I squeeze his hand nervously. Ryker looks over at me, his tone calm and low when he says, “I’d never bring you someplace that wasn’t safe, understand?”

I hear what he’s saying, but I don’t trust him. I don’t even know him. Everything he says and does is contradictory.

It makes me want to bolt.

Ryker knocks on another red door three times before opening it.

Holy. Shit. There’s a whole different club in this basement. This one is leaps and bounds better than the version we just walked through. Music pumps through the overhead speakers, and the entire place is low lit with the warm scents of vanilla, cigars, and something sweet like cherries. Plush leather seating arrangements are everywhere, clustered in groups of four and six.

Ryker leads me to the back of the massive room where a man in a white t-shirt and jeans smokes the cigar I smell. He stands when we approach and Ryker growls, “Eyes to the floor, Butterfly.”

Gritting my teeth, I do as he says.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” The man laughs. “Mannn, I wish I’d known it was date night.”

“Shut it, Knox.” Ryker slides into the booth first and then pats the leather cushion, signaling for me to sit next to him.

It makes me feel like a dog.

I obey anyway.

Ryker’s hand rests possessively on my thigh. “Dmitri couldn’t join us.”

“Guess that’s why D ain’t here, huh?”

“Something like that,” Ryker says.

I stare at the mahogany table. It’s nice quality. Everything in here looks brand new from what I’ve seen so far. What the hell?

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