The evening’s events had given her more insight into her target than she would ever have expected.
7
Overtaken by Rapture
With energy to burn, Dakota took the stairs to his hotel suite while anger bit at his heels. He entered his room, stripped off his mask, and changed out of his tux and into black pants and a black shirt. While he should have stayed and mingled, Matt’s drunken antics had monopolized every damn conversation.
Dakota had better things to do than spend his evening discussing a piss-ant lying, cheating realtor who should get booted out of the industry. Rather than get caught up in the drama, he needed to leave before he put Matt in his place with a few choice words and a black eye.
He left his room and took the stairs to the lobby, then strode into the parking garage. As he approached his truck, his brain stuttered to a stop. “No fucking way.”
The word ALPHA had been spray painted in red across the side of his vehicle. Feeling like eyes were on him, he peered into the parked cars, but saw no one. Had the word ASSHOLE been plastered on his truck, he would have assumed Matt guilty of that.
But ALPHA? He hadn’t been with the top-secret organization in three years, not officially, anyway. And theonlyperson he’d confided in had been his brother, Sin. He’d have to get his truck repainted.Fucking pain in my ass.
As he drove to The Dungeon, he replayed the evening. As far as he was concerned, Matt’s childish behavior would be forgotten by tomorrow. For the rest of the evening, he would chill with a strong drink and an enthusiastic play partner. Reality could wait a few damn hours.
He parked around back and tied on the black mask.Rather than wait in the long line, he used his key and entered through the back door. He’d hoped the new fire-breathing sheriff would be waiting to give him a ration of shit. But he stood there alone. So, he headed upstairs to L2.
The Dungeon’s layout was simple.
Level One—L1— members were hard-core partiers. Mostly, young professionals who worked hard and played harder. Five thousand a year bought a basic membership. They’d meet up on the first floor, but hookup elsewhere. As an L3 member, Dakota never hung out on the first floor.
Level Two membership provided three strip bars of varying heat levels on the second floor. A dozen private rooms were available for lap dances on L2. The wealthy threw down twenty-five grand—year in and year out—in exchange for a VIP membership.
Level Three was designed for those with eclectic tastes. An L3 member annually shelled out seventy-five big ones. Seven private, third-floor suites, nicknamed after the seven deadly sins, came stocked with the finest liquor, the silkiest sheets, the plushest towels. These rooms afforded a variety of toys for the serious-minded. Consenting adults could play in luxury, knowing their fetishes and sexual desires were safely guarded and protected from the real world.
But the basement, known as the dungeon, was how the club got its name. And only two people had access to that sacred space. The owner and Dakota. Since Dakota had forked out the money to buy the building and turn it into a hot bed for debauchery and sin, he was entitled to the key to hell. But he’d never gone downstairs to check it out. Medieval-like torture before, during, or after sex wasn’t his thing.
Most wore masks on L1, but everyone wore masks on L2 and L3. As mainstream as tattoos, they heightened sex appeal, created mystery and, in some cases, were a necessity. The club catered to high-profile members. Not all members were single and none wanted to end up on the front page ofThe Washington Postor trending on social media.
Dakota entered L2. The alluring music, paired with the sea of masked members, washed away his frustration. Here, his goals were straightforward. Enjoy a strong drink and a willing play partner. The bar was packed, so he found an empty booth. After the server took his order, he watched a stripper make love to the shiny silver pole.
Hoping to spot Providence making the rounds, he glanced around. He shouldn’t be thinking about Stryker’s gal, but he was. Her fiery energy, paired with those sexy eyes, were a dangerously delicious combination.
Dakota needed to know her story, so he sent Stryker a text. “I’m on L2. Join me for a drink.”
Dots appeared, then Stryker’s reply. “Later. Talking to my GM.”
Of course, he’s with Providence. I’d be with her, too, if she weren’t his.
After slipping his phone into his pocket, Dakota adjusted his mask. He hated wearing the damn thing, but when he played, he used it. In reality, it did little to conceal his identity, but it created a necessary shield between himself and his play partner. Masked sex kept things anonymous. No need for small talk. Just two consenting adults enjoying some hedonistic fun.
Like his club name—Maximus—it was one more layer devised to keep everyone at a comfortable distance.
In twenty minutes, he would head upstairs to the Lust room to exorcise his inner demons with a woman named Rapture. He met her a couple of months back, but she hadn’t pinged him for a connection until this week. She was into two of his favorite fetishes—sensation play and role playing—and he was looking forward to seeing where those sexy distractions would take them.
The server set down his Macallan and left. The whiskey went down easy as the topless performer left the stage, only to be replaced by another.
“Hey, Maximus, want some company?”
Three masked women were hovering like drones. One of them slid into the booth across from him. “I’m pretty sure this is you.” She showed him her phone. The entire fiasco with Matt was playing out on social media.Fuck. Fuck me.
“That was hot, what you did to that creep,” she said. “He should never have hit you.”
“So, you’re a real estate broker,” said the second one. “I’ve got my license and I wouldloveto workunderyou.”
“I don’t care who you are or what you do for a living,” said the third woman. “I just wanna get wild. Come play with us.”
