Page 15 of Scorching Sienna

“Are you a schoolgirl, Sienna?” Her breathing is shallow and rapid. Goosebumps pepper her skin, and my cock becomes a little harder. I didn’t think it was possible. But apparently, Sienna has a direct fucking link to it. Could very well be its owner for the way it responds to her.

“No?” Her breathy answer comes out more like a question.

“Don’t play games when you don’t know the players, Sienna. The people in that room will eat you up alive. And then I’ll be forced to kill them. Do you want that blood on your hands?” She shivers, and I pull back, expecting to see fear on her face.

What I don’t expect is to see a flush tinting her cheeks pink and her green eyes hooded with lust.

Fuck. I’m fucked.

Luckily for her, the door behind us opens, and Sienna jumps, her face turning bright red with embarrassment.

“Um, Damon.” Gael hesitates behind me.

“What?” Wide green eyes stare back at me.

“Lady Chatman is here to see you.” Dammit.

“I’ll be right out.” Gael closes the door behind us.

“Take them out. You don’t need tips. I pay my staff very well.”

The raging hard-on reminds me who its boss is, twitching as I leave. Just before the door shuts behind me, a small moan reaches my ears, one that replays in my dreams that night as I hold onto two red ponytails.

Chapter 6

Light

It had been nearly two weeks since I started atSin. Almost two weeks since the incident in the corridor when I nearly pleaded for Damon to do those things I read about in the Kama Sutra to me.

I now owned my own copy. I had to order it online as I couldn’t stomach the potential look of shock I feared Mia, the owner of my favorite bookstore close to home, would no doubt level me with. She might never look at me the same again.

The whole book was devoured in a matter of days, with my bucket list positions marked with green and red post-its.

I used green for those positions I classified as ‘safe’ and red for those that intrigued me but which I wasn’t sure I could actually do—mentally more so than physically.

There was also a problem with having a bucket list of sex positions. One needed a partner. And the one I wanted was always looking at me with a stern expression on his face. The other was a ghost who left me notes, seeds, and pots.

Glancing over at Damon sitting by a table with a gentleman I now know as Marcello, his gaze whips over to me, clashing with mine and immediately sending a blush to my cheeks and the critters in my stomach into overdrive.

I smile and look away, picking up an empty glass from Frankie, another regular in the VIP room.

I already knew all of the regulars, and apart from the tension between Damon and me, the work was enjoyable. More so than I anticipated. Usually, I didn’t like socializing, but that was the old me.

This new me read the Kama Sutra and fantasized about a man with dark brown eyes using my two ponytails as handlebars while deep-throating me for the first time in my life.

Before him, my thoughts were chaste. Now, they were dark and needy, constantly leaving me feeling unfulfilled—a feeling I feared only he could satiate based on my reaction to the numerous men I had met over the last two weeks.

It was primarily that gender in this section, which meant an overflow of testosterone. But unlike the club downstairs, this area was not full of laughter and dancing. Most of the time, the men looked stern, except when I brought them their drink.

Whatever was happening here was all business. The documents and envelopes that crossed tables and hands alluded to that.

Clientele were from worldwide, based on the different languages spoken. Initially, I struggled with the accents and trying to understand what they wanted to order. But after a couple of days, it became easier. With my photographic memory, regulars were easy to serve, especially those who were creatures of habit, sticking to their drink of choice.

As with Damon. He liked a lowball of expensive whiskey in a cabinet under the bar, not for sale.

Eyeing his glass, I see it is almost empty. I would top him up when Itopped up Marcello’s drink. Karuizawa, 30-year-old Bourbon, served slightly chilled neat.

Being able to remember orders made me a hit, which was great, as the other abundant thing in this room was money—not that I needed it.

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