Page 7 of Rather: The Therapist

Nikola’s soft voice failed to move me. To soothe me. To soothe my ache.

“Is everything okay?”

She tiptoed around the chair, noticing the shattered glass, immediately.

“Sit tight. I’ll clean it.”

“Thank you,” I cleared my throat.

As my home’s manager, she oversaw all things, including Princeton. He was the reason she was home as much as she was. She took good care of him on a daily basis. Thankful would be an understatement when trying to explain my appreciation for her.

“Don’t thank me,” she begged, “Please. Go ahead. You made plans tonight. Don’t let whatever is bothering you keep you inside. Go. Go. Princeton will be fine and I can handle this.”

“I–”

“Mr. Valentine,” she warned with slits for eyes, “Go ahead. We’ll be here when you return.”

I had made plans tonight, but after Spectrum, there was nowhere I’d rather be than home with Princeton. I strolled toward the full bar with an entrance near the staircase while fastening the button of my suit jacket.

If I stuck around a second longer, I’d dismiss my plans, grab Princeton from underneath his sheets, and lay him under mine. He deserved a little more love and affection tonight. Shit, we both did.

Inside my cave, I grabbed a bottle of Hennessy and poured myself a healthy shot. Before I could close the cap, the glass was emptied. The invitation I’d scanned carefully for the twelfth time sat on the counter where I’d left it. Picking it up, I stared at the chocolate-colored textured paper.

The Mansion

Private Suite 102

Foiled coating on the letters made it shine, even in the dark, as it moved. The ten-thousand dollar tab was a hefty one to pay for entry to The Mansion. The six-thousand dollar bill for the designated suite felt like a stretch but curiosity had me sending the wire transfer after the fourth month of contemplation.

I’d suppressed the urge to commit for some time. Tonight being my first appearance made more sense than I’d considered when I made the appointment. The tension in my neck and chest matched the tension in my dick and balls. They were both begging to be relieved and it started with the card in my hand.

The Mansion was the organization. Private Suites were their specialty. Their business was designed with the wealthy in mind. Their establishment wasn’t a club. It wasn’t a sex operation. It wasn’t a party. It was a place of residence for those who lacked time due to their business obligations, yet still recognized their body’s natural yearning for sexual gratification.

The kind that didn’t lead to more. The kind that was never mentioned in conversation with others. The kind that was a secret. The kind that was as plentiful as one needed.

And, clean.

Private.

Risk-free.

Available as needed.

There weren’t women walking around who were looking to score a few bucks. Each woman who entered The Mansion paid just as much as the man they were in search of to be there. Her pockets were laced and her time was limited.

Identities were concealed behind masquerade masks. The color of your mask revealed exactly what you were interested in. There were only four to choose from.

Cream – Vanilla

Yellow – Gender Play

Red – Romance (Domestic Roles, including S/D)

Black – BDSM

I was torn between the first and third options. On one hand, I wanted the simplicity of sex to work in my favor, emptying my balls fast and viciously, so I could get back home. Simultaneously, I craved the adventure the red mask would lead me to.

Clicking my tongue against my teeth, I tapped the invitation on the counter before stepping away completely. I had time to finalize my decision. When I stepped into my suite, I was certain I’d know exactly what I wanted and exactly who I wanted.

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