Page 9 of Ryker

Dragging my gaze down her back, disdain drips from my voice when I say, “Your dress is a bold choice.”

She stalls with her lipstick poised just in front of her mouth. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Blue doesn’t necessarily say fuckable. It’s giving…” My gaze narrows and I frown with disapproval. “Frozen ice queen vibes.”

She scoffs. “This is Dior.”

“And that’s Gucci,” I say, pointing at the woman over by the three-way mirror. “That’s Versace.” I jab my finger at Deseri. “And that’s…” I pause and contemplate what this other girl is wearing. “Jessie, what is that?”

“Balenciaga,” she says, twirling for me. “Do you like it?”

“Love it,” I purr appreciatively. Backing away from Tara, as if she’s old news, I kiss Jessie’s hand and parade her around the room. “You look like a goddess that every man and woman should fall on their knees for and worship.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tara throw her lipstick on the vanity.

Awww. That was too easy.

Making my way back to her, I stuff my hands in my pockets. “My clients like to make bold statements on behalf of their women, Tara. And going off these outfits, I think you can see they all have very, very deep pockets.”

Not to mention the club fee is a cool two-hundred thousand a year, per guest, but Tara would have known that already since she forked that amount over herself to be here.

“Your competitors also have the advantage of bringing someone who is eager to throw money at this.” I tilt my head and purse my lips. “Is anyone here for you tonight, Miss Reed?”

Her cheeks blaze red, and guilt wraps its hand around my throat.

Time to leave.

“I wish all of you good luck tonight.” I step back from Tara again, but not before hearing her mumble something under her breath that’s sounds an awful lot like, “I’ll show you bold, asshole.”

Taking my leave, I close the doors, knowing I’ve just set up the craziest game of mind fuckery of my life, and am left with one question.

How bad does Tara Reed really want to be the Butterfly?

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.

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