Page 52 of Pretty Ruthless Monsters: Complete Series

QUINN

For a moment, the whole world seems to stand still.

Atlas and I are both breathless in the aftermath, caught up in the sensation of what just happened. I can feel every hot pulse of his cock as he empties himself in me completely, and as he finally starts to soften, we just stare at each other.

Our faces are close together, sweat-slicked bodies intertwined, and I can tell that we’re both still reeling from the intensity of it all.

Atlas’s eyes roam over my face as if he’s searching for something, and I just take him in, lost in the comfort of his citrus and sandalwood scent mixed with mine, and the way he feels as he holds on to me.

The moment doesn’t last long though. The bubble pops after a few more heartbeats, and the sounds of the crowd start to filter back in. Catcalls and wolf whistles and someone’s voice above the din shouting, “Fuck her again! Fuck her until she begs you to stop!”

Hearing that is like a bucket of cold water to the face, and the reality of what just happened comes flooding back in.

We’re still at Eros, still with a dangerous mission hanging over our heads.

My body goes tense again, and Atlas must be able to feel it, because he finally slides out of me, a gush of cum spilling from me as he does.

My stomach dips as I feel the sticky wetness trailing over my skin. Fuck, we didn’t even have a chance to talk about protection or anything .

I stare down the length of my body between us, looking at the smear of cum across my thighs.

“I’m clean,” Atlas murmurs, dipping his head so the words are for my ears only. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

I don’t ask how he knew what I was thinking. Instead, I just nod and let out a breath. With every passing second, the safe little bubble Atlas and I created is slipping further and further away, and I can feel all those eyes on me, the crowd tracking my movements as I sit up on the bed.

“Fuck, look at those tits,” someone says in a lascivious tone. “I’d like to get my mouth on those.”

I curl my hand into a fist and try not to react to that, and Atlas helps me get to my feet and then casually steps in front of me, shielding me from view as much as possible.

It’s hard when there are so many people out there, and when the stage has basically a three-sixty view of the room.

But I appreciate the gesture all the same.

At least he’s standing between me and the three men who started this all, keeping them from being able to ogle me any more than they already have.

A woman in a slinky black dress comes up to the stage with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She has a businesslike manner that makes me think she works here, and when she gestures us off the stage, that basically confirms it.

Atlas grabs our clothes and hands me my dress, bra, and panties, and I pick up my shoes quickly as we leave the stage. It’s a relief to duck into the little alcove that the woman points us to, where we’re mostly hidden by a velvet curtain as we get dressed.

My skimpy little dress doesn’t hide much, but it’s better than being butt ass naked with all those people watching. It feels like putting my armor back on, even though it doesn’t cover nearly as much as I would like.

Once Atlas has his clothes back on as well, he looks down at me. It seems like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how to say it—or doesn’t know what he wants to say.

Before he gets a chance to figure it out, the woman from before shows up again. She pokes her head into the alcove with that same polite smile.

“Mr. Locke was very impressed with your performance up there,” she says briskly. “It was much more sensual, more… intimate, than what we usually see on our stage. He’d like to speak with you in his private lounge.”

My heart lurches with shock and excitement, and I fight the urge to look up at Atlas. This was definitely not at all how I intended to get into the back to see Vincent, but we’d have to be idiots to turn it down.

Atlas looks at me, questioning, and I nod. It’s the best chance we’re going to get.

“Lead the way,” he says to the woman, who nods.

“Follow me,” she tells us. “Stick close.”

She walks quickly, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floor as we weave our way through the crowd. Up on the stage, two men are cuffing a petite woman to the St. Andrew’s Cross, all three of them already naked and the woman adorned with nipple clamps.

Fortunately, the new ‘show’ means that no one pays us very much attention as we go past—not even the three fuckers who dragged me away from Atlas earlier—and I’m grateful for that.

The last thing I want is another standoff or altercation while we’re in this club, since I have a feeling the next one would end in death instead of sex.

I just want to talk to Vincent and get the fuck out of here.

Vincent’s representative pushes aside one of the many velvet curtains that line the walls, revealing a door behind it.

She presses her hand to a fingerprint reader beside the door, and the lock clicks.

With a cursory glance over her shoulder to make sure we’re following, she tugs the door open and steps through, leading us down a long hallway.

It’s lit with the same sconces on the wall as in the main area, which cast a purple-ish light on the concrete floor and dark paneled walls. There are other doors and little open rooms that we don’t get a chance to look into, and at the end of the hall is another door.

The woman knocks on the door three times in quick succession and then opens it, letting us file past her into what must be Vincent’s private lounge.

It has the same aesthetic as the rest of the club, dark and expensive with that archaic, antique air about it. There are low couches made from dark leather, and a long wooden surface along the back wall that seems to serve as his private bar.

The side walls are mirrored, half covered by more of those jewel toned drapes, and in the center of it all, leaning back casually on one of the couches, is Vincent Locke himself.

He looks like he’s in his late thirties or early forties, clean cut and coifed. If I saw him on the street, I wouldn’t look twice at him, assuming he was some sort of businessman, with his dark suit and dark hair.

But there’s something about him in this space that makes it clear it’s all an illusion. He’s one of those people who uses an appearance of wealthy respectability to hide just how dangerous they can be.

Considering the rules of this place and the guards at his command, it’s safe to say that crossing Vincent Locke is a very bad idea.

His assistant, or whoever she is, slips out of the room, leaving us alone with him.

Vincent’s eyes are just as dark as his hair, and I fight not to let my gaze drop as he looks us over.

I can still feel remnants of the orgasm in my body, the remembered pressure of Atlas’s hands on my skin.

The unexpected intensity of the sex we had has me feeling vulnerable in a way I’m usually not, and I work hard to close the lid on those raw emotions and put my game face back on.

A smile stretches over Vincent’s face, warm and open—but I don’t buy it for a second. It’s like a politician’s smile, meant to put you at ease while hiding a million different motives behind it.

“In case you weren’t aware, I know about everything that happens in my club. I watched your performance out there, and I have to say, I was impressed,” he finally says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a show like that on my stage.”

His voice is rich and smooth, and he speaks with utter confidence. There’s something else in his tone too, a lasciviousness that’s slightly more subtle than the way the crowd out there was groaning with lust as they watched us—but only slightly.

When he looks me up and down, his eyes lingering on my cleavage, it’s obvious what he’s thinking.

“We’re happy to have entertained,” Atlas replies, his voice cool and measured. He moves a bit, and I can feel the possessiveness in the action when his arm snakes around my waist. He pulls me in closer to his side, and I don’t resist.

I can take care of myself, and I was raised to be a fighter, to not need to look to anyone else to protect me. But I was also raised to survive, and that means not being an idiot.

I’m better off with Atlas’s protection in a place like this. I’m safer with his claim on me—no matter how complicated my feelings about being ‘claimed’ by him may be.

There will be time to sort through all that later. For now, we have a job to do.

Vincent takes in the way Atlas touches me, and his lips curl into another smile. If he’s offended by Atlas staking his claim in that subtle way, he doesn’t show it. He just gestures to the couch opposite from where he’s sitting. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

I nod, and Atlas and I move as one, sitting side by side on the couch. Vincent drapes both arms over the back of his own couch, tilting his head to one side.

“I’ve run Eros for a long time, and business has been good,” he tells us.

“Hundreds of people have fucked on that stage you were on tonight, as I’m sure you can guess.

People love a show—and even more than that, people love being the center of attention.

They’ll do depraved things to each other to keep the crowd wanting more.

But you two…” His eyes flash over us, landing on me again.

“You kept it simple. It was less about the show and more about the two of you together. Just… enjoying each other for our enjoyment. It was beautiful.”

My face flushes with embarrassment at the way he’s going on and on about it.

I hate being talked about like that, and a flush rises up my cheeks at the realization of how obviously intimate things got between me and Atlas.

Even through whatever camera Vincent was watching from back here, it was clear to him that we were doing a hell of a lot more than just fucking.