Page 39 of The Club

I stare over the top of the monitors to Dominic in the doorway. His dark eyes burn with an electrifying mixture of fury and possession.

As today passed, more of last night’s events clarified. He almost killed me. He fully intended to. As much as he wants me, which is obvious in the cock pressing hard against the front of his gray pants, he hates me too.

The moment stretches to its breaking point.

“Come,” he demands roughly, and I shudder as my cock tries to obey.

Dominic’s eyes half close as he watches my reaction to the word, my body’s instinctive interpretation of it.

I get up from my chair. When I step away from the desk, Dominic’s eyes drop to my crotch. His lips part. The sensation of the cage as a hand wrapped around my cock intensifies.

It’s agony. I need to get hard. I need to come.

Only Dominic can give that to me.

I go to him.

I expect his hand to go straight for my caged cock, but he reaches instead for my face. His hand cups my jaw. His thumb gently brushes my bruised cheekbone. He clearly knows where the injury is under the concealer.

He whispers, “No one gets to hurt you but me.”

My breath catches. He’s so fucking dangerous—and somehow I’ve never felt safer.

I keep my eyes on his as his hand drifts downward. His fingers brush my throat and sternum. The sensation vanishes as his touch moves down my corset vest, but I hear the lightscrape. I breathe harder as his fingers go lower. They reach my waistband.

At the tap of his fingers against the cock cage, I gasp.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “You were a good boy after all.” His eyes drift downward. “So you hated this?”

“Yes.”

“And you hate me?”

“Yes.”

“But you need me.” It’s not a question this time, but I answer anyway, though I can only whisper.

“Yes.”

His thumb strokes the cage as it stroked my cheekbone. The sensations are half there but somehow more intense because of it.

“Take it off,” I tell him.

“Not yet.”

I make a sound of frustration. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks the calmest I’ve ever seen him.

“Come,” he says, and just like last time, my body responds with a throb and shudder before I’m able to follow him from the office. I expect him to head toward the elevator, but he leads me instead to one of the couches.

It’s Thursday, so the club isn’t at its fullest. The couch is unoccupied, the audience scattered.

Dominic settles on the couch. He’s smirking. He’s drawing this out. He wants to enjoy my frustration.

I glare down at him. He doesn’t get to have all the power. Not that easily.

I sink down between his spread legs until I’m kneeling on the floor. His smirk vanishes when my hands settle on his thighs. His lips part as my hands slide toward his hips.

I expect him to grab my throat, to snarl, to stop me, but he doesn’t. When I reach his groin, my thumbs stroke his swollenballs through the fabric. With the music, I can’t hear any sounds that he makes, but I can feel the way he shudders.

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