Page 10 of Carved Obsession (The Sanctum Syndicate #4)

Scarlet

At some point in the last half an hour, the music has turned ethereally sultry. Lascivious notes thread through the dimly lit space as a woman performs a burlesque show on stage.

But my attention is somewhere else—the small crowd gathered in front of one particular window, down the wide corridor. I’ve been visiting this club for about three months now, and something interesting is always happening over there. I wonder what it is tonight.

I make my way between the people who all seem keen to look at my wrist to check where I stand, but I excuse myself every time someone attempts to stop me. I want to see what’s there. The curiosity has been killing me since a woman gasped loudly enough that I heard her over the music.

Gently nudging the bodies standing before the window, I finally make my way to the front. It takes me a moment to acknowledge the image before me, and a moment longer to understand it.

“It can’t be . . .” I whisper to myself.

But it is—the motherfucking Carver himself stands before me, with only glass separating us. And he is not alone.

As much as I loathed my teenage years, always trapped inside the house by my darling mother, pouring my frustration into learning code and honing my tech skills has made me who I am today.

And it allowed me to keep my eye on Carter Pierce over the last six months.

From a safe distance, but close enough to observe patterns and find out more about the man.

I visited Metamorphosis for the first time after seeing him come here several times. There was always a steady flow of people going in. I got curious, so I did my research, and when I found out what it was, I had to snag a membership.

Little did I know that this fetish club would become a little obsession of mine.

Just like the man himself.

I never play, only people-watch and enjoy the delicious drinks.

Twice we ended up here at the same time.

Adrenaline might be my thing, but I wasn’t about to chase death at his hands.

So, once I noticed his pattern, I began avoiding the club on the days Carter usually comes.

The man is quite strict about his schedule.

Or so I thought.

He’s not supposed to be here today.

Yet, there he is, with a woman, breaking the pattern.

The blonde is ridiculously attractive, especially with her arms tied to a strap hanging from the ceiling, and a spreader bar keeping her legs wide open as she squirms and yelps.

Because right between them, a thin metal pedestal stands with a large red dildo at the end of it, the tip spreading her pussy wide open.

It looks to be completely soaked, and I bet none of that is lube.

She’s brightly flushed, hair clinging to damp skin as her head leans against her arm.

She’s facing the corner of the room, so I get a glimpse of her red ass and back, slightly purple in places from where Carter’s braided whip makes contact. Repeatedly.

And he’s still at it.

It has to be him...I’ve studied every inch of this man in photos and videos I found online while I was waiting for him to come for me. Granted, there wasn’t as much media as I thought there would be, and most were from various philanthropic events in Queenscove.

The philanthropic part was both shocking and pleasantly surprising.

But those photos were enough for me to notice and now recognize that chaotic black-and-gray throat tattoo that resembles a splintering explosion.

He turns, and the creepy eye on the back of his neck stares straight into my soul. There’s no denying it’s Carter Pierce under that half-skull mask.

And he’s touching . . . her.

I haven’t spoken those words, yet their bitter taste still coats my tongue.

He runs his middle finger down the naked woman’s spine, and when her muscles twitch, attempting to arch into his touch, my fists tighten.

Something about this image feels utterly wrong. It doesn’t fit. Something is missing.

The woman moans as Carter slides that one digit around her waist, over her hip bone, around her navel, and down her belly. He whips her thigh right as that finger reaches her drenched pussy, and the scream she lets out as he slaps her clit is charged with a wanton moan I feel straight in my core.

My fists clench harder, teeth grinding together, yet my own center throbs and yearns.

Why is this bothering me so much?

What’s wrong with this image?

God, the way he touches her, the way she tries to squirm, her moans and cries of pleasure and pain, they’re.

.. exhilarating . With each assault, she seems to disappear deeper into a state of mind-bending pleasure I cannot even fathom.

She smiles maniacally and cries passionately over and over again as Carter works her unlike anything I’ve seen since coming to this fetish club.

But that’s not the cherry on the cake. It’s his unbending attention.

He doesn’t just watch her—he studies her.

The effect of every touch, every strike, the way each of his words lands.

He’s completely in tune with her and her needs.

He stops before she even gets a chance to use her safe word.

He restarts when her breathing calms and her lips quirk on one side.

He brings her to the edge of oblivion and drags her back down on breathless cries I feel in my soul, and I’m close to weeping myself at the sight.

This is beyond impressive.

This— he —is mesmerizing.

Metamorphosis holds a good pool of interesting customers, and I’ve seen my share of incredible people playing together, but Carter is something else.

With pulled-back shoulders, stance straight and proud; sinewy, tattooed forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt; the dusting of hair peeking from his open collar, almost obscured by his tattoos; and the simple way he stalks.

..he’s nothing like the men I’ve seen play here.

He’s in a league of his own.

A masked god.

And the problem with this image finally dawns on me—her . She is the wrong one. Because it’s not me.

It’s goddamn infuriating!

How dare he make me desire what he’s offering to another woman!

How dare he awaken this starving need to find out if there’s an ounce of possibility for me to feel what she feels!

How fucking dare he!

And after he tried to kill me, nonetheless.

The nerve of this man.

I thought we had a connection. Some form of mutual respect. I guess I’ll have to teach him a little lesson.

But until I form that plan, I’m glued to this wretched window and this infuriating man, watching as he clamps her nipples, a chain connecting them, and holds them with a painful tension as he violently spanks her clit.

Tears stream down her cheeks, a mad smile pulls at her lips, and ecstasy paints every feature.

This goes on for minutes on end, until her legs begin to shake, and she looks up at the strap connecting her to the ceiling like she can will it loose with one gaze.

When her breaths come in rapid bursts and her eyes turn glassy, Carter stops spanking her and loosens that strap, immediately grabbing the whip.

The moment is instant. She impales herself on the slickened dildo, bouncing on it as Carter holds the delicate chain connecting the clamps on her nipples, and whips her between each dip.

Her orgasm comes five blows later, and I’m convinced it rattled the fucking window. I’m both mesmerized and frustrated. Which is why I must step away. The last thing I need is to witness the aftercare part of this scene.

Is it brief? Is it intimate? Is it sweet?

I turn on my heels before I get the answers.

I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me. Yet, this wild voice inside my head rages with unfounded jealousy. I could claim that it’s because I’ll never experience what she just has. That I’ll never feel on my own skin that mad combination of pleasure and pain because my biology failed me.

Those are true as well, but they aren’t the main reason for this jealousy.

I’m truly screwed.

* * *

I don’t know how much time passed since I returned to the bar, but I already finished my first Necromancer cocktail and I’m halfway through the second when I notice Carter sitting at the bar. Three stools away from me.

I’m not sure he can see me here. There are quite a few people between us, both sitting and standing. Regardless, I doubt he’ll recognize me behind the white full-face Pierrot mask I’m wearing.

He took his time with the aftercare, I guess. Yet, he’s alone now.

Maybe I should have left, just as before, but I’m done avoiding him.

I sip more of my cocktail, reveling in the anise-flavored burn and wishing for more of it as I watch the man ordering his own drink. Is he a straight-up whiskey kind of guy? Vodka? Or beer?

No. Definitely not beer. Or maybe a Corona on an excessively warm summer day? Vodka seems too...simplistic. It must be whiskey, then.

Only, it’s not at all.

A delicate pink flower floats in the drink the bartender slides in front of him.

What the . . . ?

He pulls the tumbler close, dips one finger in, and swirls the flower through the drink exactly three times while I wipe actual drool from the corner of my mouth. He then slips that very finger beneath his mask, and deep in my core, a sizzle blooms. Oh, good god, what is this man doing to me?

The woman he was with is still nowhere in sight.

Though, I can’t help but notice the vultures circling.

One chick has already walked by him three times, and he’s been sitting down for only two minutes.

Another one is sitting on the next stool over from him, and she seems to be leaning further and further in.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll grace her with his attention.

And here I fucking am, judging these women when I’m doing the same thing—watching him.

I tell myself that my reasoning is completely different. The man wants to murder me, so of course I’ll be watching to make sure I’m ready when he comes for me.

Actually . . .

I pluck my phone from the pocket of my black circle dress—a tame, knee-high number with a low neckline that squeezes the crap out of my boobs but gives generous cleavage—and go straight to my text messages, tapping enthusiastically.

And here I thought I would be dead by now. Busy, killer-boy?

He pops his drink down and spins on the stool until his back meets the bar, then reaches into his pocket. When he pulls his phone out, he throws his gaze around like he’s making sure no one can see his screen.

I don’t miss the flexing of his forearms or how hard they tense as he clutches the device and types.

Interesting .

So, I do have an effect.

My phone vibrates, and I turn away from him to read and reply.

Eager, kitten?

Just bored. So many months have passed…

I can’t help but tease, just to piss him off.

I hope you enjoyed them. You won’t get to see the next one.

We’ll see about that.

A wild grin strains my cheeks. Drinking the rest of my Necromancer, I drop from the barstool and head toward the stairs that lead up to the exit.

Just as I pass him, I pretend to lose my footing, bumping into the man himself. His large hand wraps around my waist, catching me before I make full contact.

“Oh gosh! My apologies,” I exclaim as I lay my palm on his shoulder, giving it just one little squeeze, before I straighten.

So much lean, hard muscle . . .

His masked expression is unreadable, but I catch the slight tilt of his head as it moves down my body, then up again.

“No harm done.” His smoky drawl is hard to hear over the music, but his palm still rests on my waist. Such a simple, innocent touch with so much potential.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, sir,” I say, my hand running down his bicep.

He nods, reluctantly letting go, and I turn, taking a centering breath in as I walk away with slow, determined steps.

I toss a little sway in my hips for good measure.

Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I catch him watching me, and a little pride blooms in my soul.

I open the rideshare app on my phone and order one. Then, as I walk up the stairs, I check to make sure he’s not watching me anymore.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I text him back.

Promises, promises. Sleep tight, killer-boy.

I know he has resources and skills since he had no trouble tracking my car, finding me at Carmen’s store, and learning my phone number. I set up all my shields on this phone too, yet I wonder if he can crack them and trace me to find that we share a location?

Wouldn’t that be fun? Him knowing I’m here, yet not being able to see behind the masks?

Christ almighty, I could have so much fun with that.

But I need to get my ass home, lock myself inside in case he decides to take me up on my challenge, and attempt to sleep through the night. From ear to ear, I grin as the adrenaline floods my veins and exhaustion sinks in. Because it happened. He came for me.

And it’s nowhere near over.

While he may be on a mission to silence me—not that I ever intended to talk—I have my own agenda: sweet motherfucking revenge for my broken black heart.

I should have some common sense and at least try to be afraid of his attempt on my life, but all I feel is an exhilarating freedom I want to drown myself in. Just like that first night we met...I feel alive.

And I intend to stay that way.

Let the games begin, killer-boy.