Page 17 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

Which is where I find myself now, rolling the truck to a stop in the back lot of the Maddox Hotel.

The eight-story building is just outside of campus and acts as the primary hotel for visitors of the university.

It’s upscale, the complete opposite of the shitty places down on the Avenue, with a coffee shop in the lobby and a rooftop bar that overlooks the city.

Those are of no interest to me, which is why I park the truck in the quiet lot, cracking the window and leaving Ares with a blanket, a travel bowl of water, and a new rawhide bone.

I rub my forehead against his, saying, “Braver hund,” and exit the vehicle.

There are two places I tend to go after my shift at the station: to get new ink, or to get off. Today I’m feeling like the latter, and cross the empty parking lot towards the non-descript dark gray door leading to the basement of the hotel.

I knock twice, and the peephole hatch slides open.

“Nocturne,” I say, glancing over my shoulder until I hear the locks unlatch, sliding out of place, and the door opens to a faceless keeper.

He’s wearing a mask, and hands me one to put on: this one is the opposite of the one from the Hunt, which covered the lower half of my face.

This one obscures the nose and eyes, leaving the mouth available for use.

I slide the elastic band around the back of my head and start down the dimly lit staircase that leads to Noir Sanctum.

Everyone is masked in the club. It’s a rule.

No names. No faces. It’s Baron territory after all, but no one here knows I’m an actual Baron.

This isn’t a place for the frat–more for civilians–interested in anonymity mixed with a little depravity.

The owner of the hotel and club, Timothy Maddox, is well known to be DKS down to his roots. He made a place for his people.

I’d stumbled on the club by accident–the way any red-blooded teenager does: porn.

Voyeurism porn, to be specific. At first I thought it was a joke.

Why the hell would Forsyth need an underground sex club?

We already have a brothel and a strip club.

But sure as fuck, it exists, and it’s not easy to get in.

Maddox, unlike the Lords’ Velvet Hideaway and Princes’ Gentlemen's Chamber, has standards. This place doesn’t require ID, but you do have to have a password, which can only be acquired through a rigorous application process.

It took me four months to find someone willing to even share the application.

Well, four months and a few pictures of my cousin Alisha’s feet.

I didn’t really expect to get in, an engineering major from the university with no money or connections, but one day an encrypted message came through my phone. When I opened it: the password. I get a new one every other day.

Downstairs, I’m met by the sound of laughter. A blonde in a corset perches at the bar, leaned in close to a man in a simple domino mask. Her top’s so tight her breasts swell high with every breath, a leather choker snug at her throat–black with a gold ring. An open ring. Invitation.

Her eyes flick up to mine as I ease into a seat at the other end of the bar–my safe spot.

“Whiskey. No ice,” I tell the bartender, eyes skimming the room. I’m not here to drink. I’m here to watch.

The walls are lined with burgundy velvet, rich enough to drink.

Three dim chandeliers drip low from a black ceiling, casting pools of golden light that don’t quite reach the corners.

In one of them, a woman sprawls on a chaise while a man kisses up her thighs.

Another corner holds a trio–two men and a woman, laughing between slow, exploratory touches. They make it look so easy. So natural.

I sip. Small. Needing something to occupy my hands and distract me from the stiffening between my legs.

Over in a booth, a woman sits in the middle of two men. All three are making out, sharing long kisses. She runs her hands down the front of their pants, working both of them at once.

The first time I came to the Sanctum, I felt like a voyeur. Like a ghost. But somehow, the distance made sense. I don’t do touch. I don’t trust myself with it. But here, I can participate in the silence. In observation . Here, it’s all rules, signals, structure.

The blonde at the bar stands, trailing her fingers down the masked man’s arm. She glances back at me once more before they disappear into the hallway. She knows I’ll follow. Not to join, but to witness.

I wait. Count to twenty. Set my drink down with a quiet clink, and step after them.

The hallway branches into private and semi-private rooms. If the door’s open, you’re welcome to watch. It’s early still–some rooms are dark, but others flicker with candlelight and movement.

I find them three doors in. The man is unlacing her corset with careful fingers. She faces the mirror above the bed, watching herself come undone.

She sees me. Doesn't flinch. Just smiles.

He frees her tits–full, flushed, already peaked. He palms them, rough but reverent. Her body leans into it, hips swaying slightly as he trails his mouth down her sternum. She adjusts her choker with a teasing touch.

“Want to come play with us?” she asks, lips parted, eyes sultry.

“No.” I step inside and drop into the corner chair. “I want to watch you play with each other.”

She pouts, but it’s theatrical. The man’s already unzipping. Confident. He knows his role, just like I know mine.

“Bend her over,” I say, clearly and calmly, expecting no obedience but inviting it all the same.

The man hesitates for a beat, our masked eyes meeting for a brief second.

He doesn’t have to obey my directives, but his tongue darts out and he roughly spins his partner, sending her sprawling forward.

Her tits sway, nipples brushing against the sheet.

He lifts her skirt and tugs off her panties, tossing them to the side.

A memory of dirty gray panties on a forest floor pops into my mind. I imagine the Baroness like this, bent over and submissive. The erection I’d managed to keep under control thickens into a hard rod.

The woman looks back at me, breath warm, expectant.

“Here,” I command, getting her attention. I gesture between us. “Eyes right here. Watch me while he fucks you. ”

The dude is into it, as much as she is, his cock hard and straining against the latex. She keeps her hazel eyes focused on mine. Behind her, he wraps his hand around the base of his cock and angles himself toward her entrance.

She nods, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.

He strokes himself once, steady. “She ready?” I ask.

He checks, slick fingers gleaming in the low light.

She’s moaning before he even enters. He fills her slowly, deliberately. No frenzy, no rush. Just pressure and rhythm and a shared, building pace.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, even as her mouth falls open. Her cheeks flush deeper when I shift forward, elbows on my knees, watching them like a slow-burning ritual.

“Grip her hair,” I murmur. “Let her feel it.”

He does, twining the strands around his fingers, and yanks. Hard. Her moan deepens.

This is the Sanctum at its best. Control, performance, reverence, and release. It’s what I crave out there, in the real world, but can’t seem to grasp.

Her eyes flutter shut, and I call out a reminder, “Look at me.”

This moment is not about intimacy. It’s about control. Can I get these people to do what I want? When her eyes blink open, obeying, my cock thickens again.

Leaning forward, I get closer to her. Strands of her hair have fallen from the clasp, and lipstick and eye makeup are smudged. Her eyes dart to my mouth, like she thinks I’m going to join in, maybe kiss her, maybe unbutton my pants and thrust my cock between her parted lips.

“He’s going to take you to the next level,” I explain, looking from her to him. “Wrap your hands around her throat.”

“My–” her words are cut off by his fingers clenching around her neck. The man doesn’t skip a beat, thrusting into her erratically, his orgasm close. I can’t get enough of the push-pull between them as she struggles to breathe and he edges himself, wanting this to last longer.

The throbbing in my cock intensifies. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Her eyes are wide, changing from sex to fear. A tremble builds in her limbs. She may be scared but she’s also turned on. The energy between us, the three of us, is electric, and the urge to reach out to pinch, to bite, to throttle the very essence out of her is fucking consuming.

No touching.

That’s the rule.

I tilt my head. “You scared?”

She nods.

“Of me or him?” I ask.

Over her shoulder he groans, the orgasm ripping through him. His fingers tighten, hard enough that her eyes flutter shut. Her body convulses, not just from the lack of air, but from her body finally getting release.

The man drops her and she flops forward, life and pleasure wrung from her body.

I lean forward and ask again. “Who are you scared of? Me or him?”

The sound of heavy breathing cloaks her voice but there’s no mistaking it when she says, “You.”

Turning into the long driveway, I park the car by the standalone garage behind the house. It’s still early and there are only a few lights in the stained glass windows. When I get to the back entry I’m surprised to see Graves waiting by the door.

I’d left Blondie and her man in a sweaty pile at Noir Sanctum, barely making it to the bathroom before cumming in the sink. When I got to the truck, I felt the urge lessened, my body purged, and found a happy Ares napping with his bone.