Page 19 of Caged Bliss

Claudia

“Fifteen minutes, room 33 on the third floor. I’ll be there.”

The voice is muffled, but distinct. It’s Angelo out there talking to someone. I think it’s Rodrigo. I can’t move a muscle, stuck in my panic-trance, until the lock automatically clicks shut again after three minutes of inaction.

Silence outside. Nobody comes in. I keep hearing Angelo calling out. Fifteen minutes, room 33 on the third floor. Like he knew that I was in here and what I was doing.

But how? I didn’t even realize he was in the club tonight. Although I guess it doesn’t matter, because whatever happened out there kept someone from coming inside. Probably Rodrigo, if I had to guess.

I grab the folder and keep it hidden under the drink tray. Then I unlock the door and slip out, glancing around to make sure there’s nobody nearby. My mouth is so freaking dry it tastes like sandpaper, and I hurry away from Tommy’s office over to the bar. I put the tray down, the file still under it, and start loading drinks on top. A glass of whiskey, some water for myself, a gin and tonic, two glasses of champagne. Once it’s covered, I heft it up, keeping it low so the folder stays hidden, then take my time going up to the third floor.

My head’s spinning. I am so freaking stupid. I was inches away from getting caught, and I didn’t have a single excuse ready. If Rodrigo had walked in on me, he would’ve instantly known I was up to something. Maybe I could’ve bluffed him, but I was freaking out too much, and any moron would’ve realized I was acting suspicious.

Rodrigo isn’t a moron.

I’m kicking myself mentally the whole walk back toward room 33. Nobody stops me—mostly everyone knows who I am, thanks to Tommy’s very much unwanted attentions—and it helps that I have a tray with drinks. I hear muffled moans, some shouts of pain, some murmurs, but mostly this section of the building is quiet. The clients here are interested in much more interesting pastimes, and everyone on the third floor knows that discretion is paramount. I keep my head down, trying to steady my heart, but it’s almost impossible.

Twenty minutes since the office. I pause outside of 33, wondering if this is a good idea.

But I took the risk. I got the documents. I might as well see this through.

I find Angelo sitting in a dark armchair. I stare at him, my mouth watering at the way his arms flex against his tight dress shirt. His lips pull into a tight smile and his eyes narrow as they graze along my skin, skipping over my mouth, down to my throat and my chest, and back up to my eyes. His head tilts, and for a second, he’s the only person in the whole world.

Then I notice the bed. And the flowers. And the multiple sex machines, the saddle with the huge black dildo in the middle, the silk ropes and the handcuffs, and I feel my cheeks turn bright red.

“Anything interest you?” he asks casually as he gets up out of his chair.

“Uh, no, I mean, uh—” I shouldn’t be such a freaking prude. I work at a sex club, but the sight of all this stuff still knocks me off balance.

He walks over, smirking now, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Are all those drinks for me? Or were they just an excuse to come up here?”

“Both.” I put the tray down, covering the files. I take a deep breath and force myself to stare at him and ignore the huge rubber cocks attached to gleaming steel robot arms. “I want to negotiate.”

That surprises him. He steps a few feet away from me, within arm’s reach of a rubber dick. Freaking hell, I could explode right now and disintegrate into embarrassment, but I’m here for a reason. Saving Selena. Getting out of this club and this life. That’s my mission and if I have to grow up and ignore some complicated fuck robots, then I’ll do it.

“What do you want to negotiate for, baby girl?”

I tighten my jaw. “Don’t call me that.”

“Just baby then.”

“I’m not your baby. I’m not your anything. You wanted me to?—”

Before I can finish, he holds up a hand, cocks his head, and puts a finger to his lips. I’m about to tell him off, but he reaches over to the fuck machine and switches it on, which completely ruins the snarky reply I had loaded up on my tongue.

The dick begins to pump. Slowly at first until he turns the speed up. Then he moves to the saddle and activates it. The dick thrusts and vibrates. He repeats the process, turning on all the machines, their big cocks slamming forward into invisible girls, and I’m just staring like he’s gone fucking insane.

He walks over to me. I back away, trembling, and bump into the table. The glasses rattle together as he reaches out and grabs me by the chains around my waist and yanks me forward.

I gasp in shock. He’s so freaking big and strong and he manhandles me forward like I’m nothing. His mouth moves down and my lips part, waiting for his kiss, wanting him to crush me, wanting his tongue and his taste, wanting him bad?—

Instead, he slips to my ear. “They’re watching and listening,” he whispers over the noise of the thrusting dickbots. “Look like you’re into this.”

I shiver and want to admit that I don’t have to try hard because I am very, very into him touching me right now. His grip on the body chains tightens and his other hand rests on my hip. Oh, god, I want him to move it up, move it along my skin, move to my wrist, my arm, my breasts, my lips. Between my aching, trembling legs.

He smells good. Musky, spicy. His cheeks are prickly with stubble. His mouth is soft, and gorgeous, and I reach up on impulse and run my fingers through his hair.

Soft, no product. Silky and smooth.

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