Matthieu has this place set up so that once a member scans in, their rooms are prepared for their particular tastes. By the time I make it upstairs, a girl will be in my room, ready to play.
Stepping out of the elevator, I make my way to the entrance, scanning my thumb against the sensor and waiting for the lock to disengage.
“Welcome back, Mr. Grant,” a soft voice croons, oozing sex.
I turn and take in R’chelle. Her rich, umber skin glows under the lights. I bite my lip and remember those thick thighs wrapped around my neck as I brought her to orgasm for the eighth time one night.
“Good evening, Chelly. How are you?”
Heat rises to her pecan-colored eyes— she remembers that night too.
A soft whimper escapes her as she rubs the column of her neck before she finally turns, giving me a view of her heart-shaped ass.
Fuck!
I’m tempted to see if she’ll be the one to join me tonight, but a hand lands on my shoulder before my lips can part to ask.
“Sebastian,” Matthieu greets me. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Not with everything going on back in town.”
He guides me away from Chelly and down to his office in the opposite way that we usually would go to grab a cigar and a drink while we catch up.
“Aren’t we going the wrong way?” I ask, and he snorts.
Matthieu doesn’t speak until we’re safely behind his office door.
“Have a seat. Let me get you a drink,” he instructs, and I sit in the leather armchair in front of the fireplace— opting for a face-to-face without a desk separating us.
I watch as my hulking friend pours us both a glass of ’79 Macallan Gran Reserva. Matthieu is six-six and easily three hundred pounds of muscle. So, it’s always hilarious to watch the man who looks like he bench presses skyscrapers pick up ice cubes with small tongs.
Matthieu is always immaculately dressed, his Egyptian-blue Brioni suit highlighting his dirty-blonde quiff-styled hair and jade-green eyes. The French fucker could always make a woman’s panties melt when he fixed his gaze on her.
“So, are you going to tell me why we’re meeting here and not in our usual spot?” I try for the second time.
He hands me my drink and sits.
“It’s simple. I like my club drama free and you being here violates the rules set in place by the Council,” he says cooly.
Shit.In my haste to escape everything, I forgot about the damn no fraternization rules.
Matthieu gives me a knowing smirk, “Ahh, Bastian, my friend, you forgot,” he teases, his French accent more pronounced when he uses my nickname.
“It’s been a very stressful last few days,” I mutter.
He grimaces, “Yes, I’ve heard. How is the girl? Ariah, is it?”
I dip my head confirming he’s correct. “She’s a fighter. A fucking spitfire. Resilient in ways that put grown men to shame. She’s been thrown to the lions and became the tamer.”
Matthieu’s frown lifts, his olive cheeks lift into a megawatt smile that would make men and women trip at his feet. “You like her, oui?
“No. I can’t allow myself to be that foolish again.” I blurt before he can say more.
He laughs— fucking laughs.
“Oh, Bastian. Vous ne pouvez pas être très intelligent si vous n'avez jamais rien fait de stupide. Be a little foolish, you deserve it,” he offers, reaching over to pat my knee before sitting back and sipping on his drink.
I hear him, but I wouldn’t survive another heartbreak. Whenever we choose Ariah, I’ll care for her— love is not an option.
17
