Page 2 of Filthy Rich Santas

My admirer shifts a little closer, his thigh brushing against mine. “If you’re interested in being shown around the club,” he offers, carefully skirting theno propositioningrule my yellow wristband holds him to, “I’d be more than happy to introduce you to some of my favorite activities here.”

I have no idea if he’s actually someone I want to explore the world of kink with, but as anxious as I am about trying something so different and new, I feel safe here at Radiance. My brother’s friends have created the perfect environment within the four walls of the club, and it makes me feel empowered to see where things might go if I really let myself explore my interests here.

“Tell me more,” I murmur, sipping my drink again to combat the flush in my cheeks.

He brushes a long strand of hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear, then lets his hand linger as he leans in to murmur softly in my ear. “I could, but showing is often so much more rewarding than telling.”

My nerves fire up again. Before I can convince myself that it’s really just another taste of excitement, a hand falls on my admirer’s shoulder. A big one, with thick, blunt fingers and all-too-familiar tattoos on the knuckles.

My breath hitches.

It’s Beckett Stone. One of my brother’s best friends. One of the reasons I came here tonight.

Beckett yanks the guy off me, and a flash of irritation crosses the man’s face, his lip pulling back in a snarl for a split second before he sees who it is looming over him. Then he blanches a little, his expression smoothing out into something more respectful.

I can’t really blame him. I have no idea if the man knows that Beckett is one of Radiance’s owners, but even without taking that into consideration, Beckett is huge. His muscular 6’5” build is intimidating enough on its own, but combined with the scowl under his dark, messy hair and the fire in his dark green eyes as he glares down at the guy, anyone would think twice about getting into it with him.

“This one’s off limits,” he says gruffly, his eyes flickering to me for a second before zeroing back in on my admirer.

Well, former admirer. The man obviously wasn’t that invested in getting to know me since he mumbles a quick apology in my direction, then scoots around Beckett’s tattooed bulk to disappear back into the depths of the club.

Beckett turns to watch him go, standing like a brick wall between me and everything I came here to experience.

I really, really want to be irritated about that. But who am I kidding? Having Beckett not just notice that I’m here, but actually take an interest in what I’m doing is like the start of the dream I keep trying to convince myself there’s no use in having.

Although I guess choosing the club he owns with my other two fantasy men, Ryder and Tristan, is all the evidence I need that I’m not doing a great job of pretending I don’t want what I want.

Beckett growls something under his breath at the man scurrying away from us, and the waves of dominance rolling off him have heat pooling between my legs.

Thankfully, his back is still turned to me. Although I secretly hoped I’d run into my brother’s friends tonight, now that one of them is right here, I’m not sure I’m actually ready for him to notice the effect he has on me.

Not after so many years of hiding it.

For most of my life, my older brother, Caleb, was practically joined at the hip with Beckett and his two other best friends, Ryder and Tristan. I’m friendly with all of them too, but I’m also very firmly in the “Caleb’s little sister” category for each one of them. It’s why all three of them make a point of checking up on me now that I’m living out here in Los Angeles where they all settled.

Somehow, I run into one of them every few weeks. It happens often enough to make me wonder if Caleb asked them to keep tabs on me, because Los Angeles is so huge that it can’t be an accident.

I’ve never called them on it, though, because it’s nice. Still, running into one of my brother’s best friends while I’m getting groceries or grabbing a coffee is one thing. Having to face Beckett and all his lickable tattoos while I’m wearing fuck-me heels and a yellow “yes, I might be interested” wristband at a kinky sex club is another thing altogether.

But there’s no getting out of facing him eventually. As soon as my former admirer is out of the picture, Beckett grunts something at me with another scowl. Wrapping one of his strong hands around my arm, he drags me away from the sweating glass of seltzer water I set on the bar.

“Come with me,” he rumbles, pulling me into a dimly lit hallway behind the bar that I hadn’t noticed before. Probably because the entrance is neatly camouflaged to blend into the decor.

I drag my feet, biting my lip as I look around. “Are we even allowed back here?”

It’s a stupid question and I know it. Obviously, Beckett can go wherever he wants. It’s his club. He, Ryder, and Tristan aren’t just co-owners. From everything I’ve heard, they’re actively involved in every aspect of running it.

Beckett doesn’t even bother to answer. He just drops my arm and crowds me back against the wall, caging me in with both hands flattened to it on either side of my head.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands.

My pulse starts to race again, but unlike with my former admirer at the bar, this time, there’s no question about whether it’s due to the man in front of me or not.

I may still be uncertain about where exactly my recently acknowledged interest in kink will take me, but the way my body reacts to Beckett’s natural dominance leaves no doubt that I want to pursue more of it.

I lift my chin, reminding myself that I’ve known Beckett for half my life. I may be attracted to him, but I’ve never been intimidated and don’t plan on starting now.

“Why does anyone come here?” I huff. “You do own this place, right? Which means you know what people come here to do?”

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