Page 3

Chapter 2

Merci

The bass thumps through the room as I hook my leg around the silk, then arch back until my spine curves like a wild cat mid-pounce, my thighs burning deliciously as I hang suspended above the crowd. The air always reeks of jasmine and money at these parties.

And the Horizon Palm Estate is no different.

This is the kind of place where the rich gather to flex their wealth as if it were a competitive sport. Tonight, it’s all hidden behind velvet shadows and a jungle of fake foliage. Golden cages hang from the ceiling, filled with dancers whose feathered costumes shimmer under the lights, moving like living art.

The theme of tonight’s event?

Velvet Safari.

Pretentious as fuck, but whatever. Tips are tips, and my landlord doesn't take IOUs. Plus, getting hit with the flu earlier this month completely wrecked my savings. No insurance equals pure chaos when you're a broke stripper, now sex worker, trying to stay afloat in Miami.

Welcome to my life—hustle, survive, move, rinse, repeat. No time to waste on dreams. It doesn’t pay the bills.

Speaking of, I’ve only been in Miami for two months, and the humidity’s already a mortal enemy. It turns my hair into a riotous mess. But I’m only here temporarily, so I’ll suffer through it for a short while.

Moving around leaves no time for getting comfortable.

Or caught.

Five years of constantly starting over still feels like piecing together IKEA furniture without the manual. The Obsidian Rabbit events, though, are my one constant. They crop up in different cities, offering the closest thing to stability this life allows—and a paycheck that doesn’t make me wince.

Plus, it's not just another gig. It's actually artistic, which is why I’m painted as a sleek panther tonight—black leggings hugging my ass so tight it’s nearly obscene, onyx body paint on my bare chest and arms along with splashes of silver paint to highlight my lean muscles. My face is hidden behind a bejeweled feline half-mask.

I hang above the crowd, unreachable and untouchable. This is my zone where I’m free, where people look but never get too close as I spin, spiral, and stretch my body in impossible shapes. And five years of using my body as currency has taught me exactly how to get their attention.

How to make them want what they can't have.

The music shifts to something deeper, darker. Perfect. My gaze drifts over the crowd, not really seeing, just scanning, until—there. A group of four, standing in the middle of the chaos. One in a glowing Pierrot mask, another in a golden wolf guise with rubies for eyes, and the third donning a crystalline mask resembling an evil nun that sparkles when the light hits it.

Now, that’s one way to make an entrance.

But it's the man in the devil mask with curved horns that draws my attention. There's something in the way he stands, completely still, while everyone around him sways to the music.

I twist into my final drop, the silk tightening around my thigh as I spiral down, letting gravity do its thing. The crowd gasps—always does. I land smoothly, a bead of sweat sliding down my neck.

Maybe that’s why I do this.

Because I’m in control. All eyes are on me, so I determine what they do and don’t see. Never had that growing up.

I dismiss the notion as I step off the stage. Then, without missing a beat, I swipe a cocktail from a tray, the ice clinking against my teeth as I take a long sip. Something sharp, cucumber, gin . . . basil?

Whatever.

It’s cold. It’s wet. It'll do.

"Living for the spotlight, aren't we?"

I turn my head, raising a brow. Raiyne’s dressed head-to-toe in green snakeskin, his red hair styled to perfection. He’s magnetic, just like me, though where I glide, he strikes. His eyes glitter with that dangerous edge I’ve come to appreciate since we met a few years ago. Brutality wrapped in finesse.

We’re two sides of the same fucked-up coin, and we've got history—the kind that usually starts and ends in bathrooms. He’s taught me a few things about using my mouth, and I like to think I returned the favor.

"Please, the spotlight lives for me," I say as we arrive at the bar. “How’s the crowd looking?”

“Rich and thirsty.” He stretches his arms above his head so the muscles in his back ripple.

“How's the new routine coming along?"

He leans back against the bar and shrugs. “Eh. Too busy with sports and shit at school. Need more time to practice. Planning on making some tips?”

"Bills don't pay themselves."

Right on cue, the event manager slides up, looking slick, expensive, and slimy. His eyes zero in on me, then Raiyne. “Platinum members requested a private show. Half a million-dollar membership. You know what that means.”

Private rooms are . . . different from my aerial stuff. "What's the deal?"

“Whatever they want, as long as you consent. They're particularly interested in you, Laurent."

So much for my low-key night. But rent is due, and my savings are still recovering. "Fine, whatever."

Raiyne smirks, bumping my hip. “Don’t sound too excited.”

I snort, flipping him off. “Like I haven’t fucked for a paycheck before. Or a meal.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward the hallway. And, for a moment, just a fractional second, my heart kicks up, and my body stiffens. It doesn’t happen often. I’ve learned to control the PTSD—for the most part—but occasionally, the panic and the memories still hit me.

“Well, maybe we’ll just be sucking some dick tonight. Fuck, I hope so. I’ll be making bank then.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, shooting me that signature mischievous smirk where his nose crinkles slightly. “Didn’t hear you complaining last time. If I recall, you were screaming my name. ”

I flip him off again as we step behind the velvet curtain, the party’s noise muffling behind us.

The private room is exactly what you'd expect—all crimson velvet and low lighting, with plush chairs arranged in a semicircle where the four masked men from earlier are seated.

Raiyne’s already at one pole, one hand gliding up like he owns the damn thing, his body moving with that slow, dangerous grace that always gets attention. He winks, and I can’t help but smirk as I take my place on the pole opposite him.

My hand wraps around the cool metal, and my body falls into the rhythm, both of us winding around in perfect sync like we’re two parts of the same machine. I spin, the momentum pulling me around as I arch my back, following Raiyne’s lead.

I steal a glance at Devil Mask, his arms draped lazily over the armrests. His posture is relaxed, too relaxed. Is he even watching, or did this jerk-off fall asleep?

Over my dead body will I be leaving here tonight without a tip.

I push off the pole and saunter toward him, hips rolling with every step. I stop right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath, then sink into his lap with a slow, deliberate grind .

My fingers trail up his chest, nails lightly scratching through the fabric of his suit as my body moves against his.

Still, no reaction.

A challenge. Fuck it, I’m game.

I smile, letting my lips curve into something teasing, almost daring. “Enjoying the show?”

He doesn’t say a word.

Fine.

He wants to play it cool? I’ll light the match.

"You gonna sit there like a statue all night, or are you gonna show me some appreciation?" My voice drips with honey, but there’s venom underneath, ready to strike if he still plays this game of indifference.

I grind down, nails digging into his chest just enough to send a message—I'm not here to be ignored. His dick twitches against me, and I gasp. Fuck, he’s pierced. I can feel the metal balls pressing against me since he’s wearing dress slacks.

A Jacob’s Ladder.

A shiver shoots down my spine, heat pooling low in my stomach as I roll my hips again, rubbing my hard length against his pierced one. “Like that?”

No reaction. Nothing. It’s like he’s not even here.

Except his dick says otherwise .

I narrow my eyes as I grind down harder, then lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Bet you’re dying to touch me.”

Still nothing.

His head doesn’t move. His breathing stays even, hands remaining on the armrests. But I don’t miss the way his dick twitches again, harder this time.

A loud moan catches my attention. Wolf Mask’s palming himself, his head turned to the left where Raiyne’s on his knees licking up Pierrot’s crotch.

I can’t help but smirk. My friend’s going to eat that guy alive.

Devil Mask grabs my chin and turns my face forward, his grip firm but not painful. Almost possessive. His thumb brushes my lips slowly like he’s testing something. Then he lets go, and his hips thrust up, his dick grinding into mine.

I bite back a moan, the friction almost too much. He’s not playing around now, his body moving in tune with mine as we dry hump, and I can barely keep it together.

His tattooed left hand skates over my thigh to my waistband, then he yanks it down, freeing my hard dick.

When his head tilts sideways, I smirk and lean in. “Didn’t think you were the only one pierced, did you? ”

His fingers brush over the metal barbell running through the head of my cock, then he growls. It’s barely audible over the music, but it makes me leak shamelessly.

“Fuck.”

The guy in the sparkly nun mask turns to his friend, but Devil Mask keeps his focus on me as he wraps his fingers against my throbbing length.

My hips jerk up, fucking into his hand, as he strokes me with a steady, torturous rhythm that’s got my legs trembling. I bite my lip, trying to hold back the moan clawing its way up my throat.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been jerked off in a room full of people. Hell, it’s not even the first time this week. Plus, the tips are higher when the client is into it.

My pulse pounds in my ears, my skin buzzing as I pant and thrust into his fist like a needy whore. I groan when his grip tightens, and my head falls back, eyes rolling as his thumb teases the piercing, sending jolts of pleasure through me.

I’m so close. “Fuck.”

I glance at Raiyne. His lips are wrapped around Pierrot Mask’s dick, fingers digging into the guy’s ass as he works him like it’s a fucking art form. Our eyes meet, and he smirks around the guy’s length like he knows exactly what’s happening to me over here.

Asshole .

Devil Mask’s grip tightens around my length and my gaze snaps back to him. His other hand cups my balls, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp as he strokes me faster.

“Harder. Make me come. Oh, fuck. Fuck.” I grab onto his shoulders to steady myself as my body spasms, cum splattering onto his clothes.

He doesn’t stop jerking me, not until I’m completely spent, my body limp in his lap. I slump forward, closing my eyes and panting as I try to catch my breath.

A low chuckle rumbles beneath me, and I snap my eyes open. I pull back as he tilts his mask up. Steel-gray eyes bore into me, cold as ice.

Eyes I know.

Eyes I’ve been running from for five fucking years.

“Hello, brother.”

“Zach?” I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “No, no, no.”

Panic, pure fucking panic courses through me as he grabs my wrists.

A sharp sting flares in my shoulder, and my vision swims. The room blurs as the breath catches in my throat. I try to move, try to speak, but the darkness comes too fast, and my body goes limp.