Page 17 of Beautifully Damned
“Vodka. Cold. Straight.”
“Yes, sir.”
He scrambles ahead to open the door. The room is dim and private, walled in by dark glass, giving me a full view of the club beneath me. The poles are alive with bodies, women writhing in sweat and sequins, hips rolling, legs spreading. Bass thuds like a heartbeat under my feet.
I settle into the leather couch with a sigh, loosening the buttons of my shirt. A cold glass is placed on the table beside me, the server vanishing before I acknowledge him.
I scan the room below. I want to pick someone. That’s why I came. Pick, fuck, empty it out of me and move on. My gaze moves slowly, deliberately, across the floor. All of the women here are conventionally attractive, yet no one grabs me.
Until I realize, disgust curling hot in my gut, that I’m not scanning for just anyone. I’m looking forher.Dirt-blonde hair. Green eyes. Mouth that talks too much. Small. Too small to make this much noise inside me.
My free hand presses to my thigh. I close my eyes and try to think about something else—someoneelse. Faces I never bothered to remember. Backs arched. Knees spread. Nails dragging across my chest.
I try to picture what I’ll do when I pick one. I imagine taking her hard, bending her over the leather, pulling her hair until she screams my name—
But nothing happens.
I stay limp and useless in my pants. I slam the vodka back, throat burning. Still no relief. If I don’t fuck soon, I’ll lose my goddamn mind.
I down the rest of my drink and snap my fingers. The man rushes in like he's been waiting outside the door. “Bring me one,” I say.
His eyes widen. “One, Pakhan?”
“The best you've got. The best on these fucking poles.”
He nods like his head might roll off, then bolts. A few minutes pass. Long enough for my patience to rot. Then the door creaks open.
I nearly laugh.
Blonde.
Green eyes.
Small frame.
Looks too much like her.
She walks in slowly, closing the door behind her, red lingerie clinging to her skin.
"Good evening, Pakhan," she purrs, voice silk and smoke. "They said you needed someone who could help you… unwind."
Her perfume arrives before she does—overpowering, artificial. Like someone poured syrup over rotting flowers. Nothing like Ayla. That fucking thought makes bile crawl up my throat. I slam my fist down on the table.
The girl jumps, but she doesn’t stop. Trained well, or stupid. She places one manicured hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently, “I can be anything you want tonight. Anything.”
Nothing stirs. Nothing fucking moves. I stare straight ahead at the glass, at the world I built, and wonder, not for the firsttime in the span of a couple days, what the fuck is happening to me.
“You’re tense. Let me help, Pakhan.”
Her hand on my shoulder might as well be a leech. She trails her fingers down to my collarbone, but she knows not to go further without my permission. And right now all I want to do is throw her off me.
“Let me take care of you, Pakhan, it would be my pleasure.”
Not a twitch. Not a throb. My cock is fucking betraying me.
My brain floods with one image. Dirt-blonde hair in a wet bun. Eyes too green. That sharp mouth of hers. My shoulder twitches under the blonde’s hand. The tingles I feel whenever Ayla touches me never come. There’s no charge. No reaction. I feel like a corpse letting someone paw at me.
I used to own women like her. Now I can’t even stomach their scent.Tingles. Fucking tingles. What am I—a hormonal boy? A clown in heat?
