Page 26 of Emmett
After scrolling through way too many pages being way too picky, I finally settle for some homemade video with a clickbaity title that jumps straight into the action. The couple is in missionary and the woman on the bottom already hasmakeup running down her face while she cries out her partner’s name.
It’s too late by the time my phone finally chimes with a match alert; I’m already pumping my cock in time with the motion of the hips of the guy on the screen. He’s pounding into his partner so hard that she should be crying, but she’s eating it up and begging him for more. I squeeze the head of my cock while she whines, joining her with a moan. “Fuck,” I pant as the guy on screen shoves his fingers into her mouth and uses them to control the movement of her head, forcing her to look him in the eye.
“You’re such a pretty whore,” he tells her, and something tenses inside of me.
‘Pretty boy.’
Christ, get out of my head.
My hand moves faster as the sound of the video is replaced with Nash’s voice. The phantom weight of his body presses against mine, his rich cologne blankets me and I can feel his breath against my ear as he speaks.
‘Swallow it.’
I grunt and whine as every nerve in my body lights up, dropping the phone next to me as I pump my cock harder. I brush my free hand through my hair as my head falls back, cursing under my breath. Electricity shoots through my spine, practically forcing the oxygen from my lungs as Nash’s voice sounds off in my ear again.
‘Do you want me to own you?’
“Oh fuck, shit,” I pant. “Don’t—”
I moan loudly, pressing my free hand to my mouth to muffle the sound while my orgasm takes me, lighting me up from every angle as jets of cum shoot onto my stomach. Mybreathing is ragged and heavy as I come down, and intense pleasure is immediately replaced with confusion.
What the hell was that?
•
Another week passes with late-night Tinder visits from Eve and Zoë, and I’m bored.
It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday night and the house is silent. There’s nothing to do but sit here and scroll online or find someone else to come over for a quick hookup, and neither of those things sound interesting right now.
‘I own everyone inside of my clubs.’
I wonder if he would be pissed if I played with his property, then.
Grinning, I hop off of my bed and throw on some fresh clothes, stopping at my nightstand to grab a condom and slide it into my back pocket. Before I leave, I spread a little pomade between the pads of my fingers and use them to loosely comb my hair back.
I did a little bit of research in my downtime; I know which clubs in the city belong to Nash Montgomery, and I know that they all operate on the fuzzy side of legal, Envy being one of the bigger offenders. You wouldn’t know it from walking inside, though. It looks as if it operates the same way as any other nightclub you might find yourself in.
Bright lights flash around the room, smoke billows up from a few areas where people are definitely not supposed to be vaping, and the loud bass of the music vibrates through my chest.
One of the club’s bottle girls walks past me carrying an empty tray over her head, and I place a hand at her waist to stop her.
“Who do I talk to about a VIP table?” I shout to her.
With a smile, she gestures toward a man at the far side of the room, who I assume is a promoter, dressed in a suit that doesn’t quite fit him right. The sleeves are a little too short and the shoulders are a little too wide for him. They’re small details, but I’m surprised they haven’t been corrected. Nash doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who lets anything less than perfect slide past him.
“Emmett Fowler,” I introduce myself, offering my hand for a shake. “Got any VIP?”
“One,” he shouts, “gonna cost ya, though.”
Reaching into my pocket, I open my wallet and pull out a credit card, sandwiching it between my index and middle finger. I flash him the black piece of plastic. “Not a problem,” I smile as I slide it back into its resting place.
I normally don’t play the rich kid card. It’s not one that I like to advertise, because it makes me look and feel like a giant douchebag. The kind of guy who says ‘do you know who my father is?’ or ‘do you know whoIam?’ But like I said, I’m bored, and I kind of feel like getting into some trouble tonight.
The guy nods and starts to walk, so I follow. We move through the crowd of people, all of whom are drinking and sweating, until we reach an area roped off by stanchions. As we walk, I keep an eye out, taking note of where each of the security cameras are placed – I know now that Nash likes to watch them.
Arrogant prick.
We finally come to a stop at an empty section, a table at the center surrounded on all sides by small lounge couches. There’s enough room for eight people here, twelve if youdon’t mind crowding, so one guy buying the space is going to have someone saying something.