“On the rocks?” A crystal glass appears in front of me.
My head tilts to a pair of barely covered tits, heaving out of a blood-red dress, strategically angled into my line of sight. Not even a minute since I sat down, and they come out of their cocoons. The Fort girls. Drawn like moths to a flame that’s too hot for them to handle.
My gaze lifts to find the face.
Wickham’s daughter.
Her father is a member of the Fort Council.
I don’t know her name, though I may have fucked her. I can never be sure. There are too many fucking brunettes around here. Too many names to remember. Too many faces to forget.
I take the drink and offer her a half-smile. That’s all she’ll get from me tonight.
“I’ve been waiting,” she purrs, trailing a manicured finger down my bicep. Her eyes flick toward the other girls hovering by the bar, staking their own silent claims. “Should we go downstairs?”
Downstairs—as in The Vault’s new level with private VIP rooms. Another new addition by the club’s new part-owner, since I refuse to let him use our house as a shag pad—Hugo’s creative that way. If he wants something, he’ll find a way.
“I don’t think so.” I toss the drink back in a single, bitter burn.
But, apparently, my rejection to fuck her translates into an invitation to sit on my lap. She slides onto my armrest, drapingan arm over my shoulders, her thighs grinding against my shaft.
I don’t bother throwing them off anymore. I would, but that just makes them come at me harder. They start peeling down the straps of their dresses, shoving their tits in my face, or lifting their skirts until you can see the crack of their arses. Not that their outfits leave any room for imagination to begin with.
“I can get down on my knees,” she slurps, lowering her lips to my ears.
Fuck no.
It takes a mountain of effort to stay hard for them when they starttalking—the drivel. They all speak the same language, too. Not sure whether they practice it together or if it’s just the wish of bagging a Grant that makes them spout the same fucking nonsense. Either way, the idea of looking into their fantasy-filled eyes, imagining wedding dresses while they gag on my cock and mistake desire for release as permanence, is not something I want to witness.
“Not tonight,” I say, my voice flat and final.
Her finger stalls on my collarbone, spine jerking upright at the tone of my voice.
“Allow me to refresh.” She reaches for my glass, too eager to please, then practically skips to the mezzanine bar.
“Wickham is persistent.” Hugo Pike appears out of nowhere and drops onto the couch across from me, his silver hair reflecting the strobe lighting and enhancing the devilish smirk on his long face.
“Annoyingly so,” I grumble. I have to remind myself who she is. Not the time to piss off yet another Council family. I have had enough heat as it is.
“You’re late.”
“You’re lucky I came at all.”
Hugo snorts, then clears his throat and motions toward thecuff of my white shirt. “Do you mind? I’m trying to sell a non-bloody vibe here.”
I glance down to find it stained with drops of red, then roll up my sleeve to hide it under the jacket.
“Let me guess, the Austin pub fire?” He places an arm over the back of his couch. “The rebels not happy about the Etheridge girl at Fort?”
“Who is?” I lift a shoulder.
No trouble for years. Then one whisper of that fucking name, and they all come crawling out of their nests like rot through floorboards.
“I’m surprised you haven’t smothered her yet.” Hugo laughs. “It’d be the easier solution.”
This fucker knowsexactlyhow to rile me up. I throw him a warning look when a high-pitched voice cuts through the hum, yanking my attention downward.
Not because of the sound.
