Page 3 of Ryker

“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.

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