Page 6

6

RYLEE

T hin leather straps crack against my skin. Blunt ends penetrating, stinging, and marking my body. I jolt forward, cowardly, on the edge of my bed with each whip.

I pride myself on discipline. But tonight I broke my own cardinal rule: giving in to my own pleasure. I lost control, I failed myself, and I must pay the consequences.

Five lashings are all I allow myself before stopping.

Laying the whip on the bed before me, I move my fingers between the tangled straps, lining them perfectly next to one another before starting again.

Instinct wants me to hiss, but I resist.

It would only add more lashings to my current count.

No one makes me do this but myself. My standards for myself are high, and I’ve failed. I deserve this. It’s the only way I can become the best version of myself.

The blunt ends of the industrial staples hit an already existing wound. My eyes prickle with pain. Crying isn’t acceptable, nor is it an option.

Five more lashings complete, then I repeat the process with intent to do five more when a knock at the door stops me.

Resting my forehead on my bed, I take a couple deep breaths and gather my composure before allowing life outside of this room to exist, again.

With hands clasped around the warm leather handle, I slide it under my blankets as I rise. My hair is still up. Having removed my makeup prior, I can feel my warm cheeks, which means there may be injuries. Grabbing my sleep tee, I slide it over my naked body, the hem reaching just under my bottom, and pad toward the door. Another knock breaks the silence. This time it’s harder and louder. Blowing out one last deep breath, I grip the metal knob and slowly open the door.

Greta looks up at me. A cig is hanging out of her mouth as her hands grip her walker.

“Tomorrow. He wants to see you again. You’re making an impression,” her gravelly voice informs me.

Shaking my head, I say, “Absolutely not.” I’m adamant.

“Too fucking bad.” Her phone rings before she’s able to continue her guilt trip. She answers quickly, “What happened?”

My brows rise with curiosity.

“No, stay there. Do as they say. I’m putting another guy on the house.” Her tone is authoritative, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what she’s talking about or to whom. There is a long silence before she continues. “Thomas, observe everything. It’s all important, and stick close to them; you can learn a lot from those two,” is the last thing she says before hanging up.

Greta puts her phone away and then in quick succession, puts out her cig on the doorframe just to light another. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I hear her natter under her breath.

I lean against the doorframe, observing her. It’s like she has forgotten I’m even here as her eyes focus on the floor, like she’s thinking and strategizing. Lost in a daze of thoughts.

It’s what she does; I’ve seen this face a million times. Never understanding what could be raising through her mind.

Greta’s head nods, and her eyes begin to blink again. “You are going. And be fucking careful. Message me once you arrive, then leave,” she demands.

Bewildered by it all, I simply nod my head and whisper, “Yeah, okay.”

Satisfied, Greta turns around and continues down the hall, not another word spoken before she disappears.

Closing my door, I hear the latch click and turn my back to it. Sliding down the hardwood, my knees bend as my backside meets the plush carpet.

My back stings as I apply pressure on it while at the same time feeling so fucking good. My eyes shift around the room as I try to piece together all the tiny clues Greta has given me. But the tiny breadcrumb trail is still too vague.

Hell Fire Night has passed. The bikers have kept to themselves. The Exiled are The Exiled. They own this fucking town; no one dares to challenge that unless they want to die.

There haven't been any alerts on my phone about anything happening in town. Tilting my head up with mixed emotions, I haven’t a fucking clue, other than I know I have to see Sinclair again.

Pulling into the secure street, I pass Elijah’s house. Looking over, I’m caught off guard. A silhouette of a man standing before the gates catches my attention. Squinting, I can’t make the person out. It’s probably him , fucking psychopath.

Taken aback, I bring my focus back to the road and pull into Nathaniel’s.

A client who loves to be degraded came in today. He is one of my favorites. No limits. We have a safe word should we ever find that limit one day, but it’s been two years and he keeps coming back. With my long nails, my fingers squeezed his cheeks as I reminded him what a vile piece of shit he was while I allowed him to fiddle with his tiny penis. It’s actually average size, but that is just a taste of what our sessions are like.

It makes me wonder how far Nathaniel will let me take it before he starts to fight back.

Chuckling to myself at the thought of him, this strong, powerful man at my mercy, his body shaking, begging for release while I edge him to the brink, makes my skin shiver in delight.

If he wants to keep this bullshit arrangement, he will get on his knees and suck my clit, like a good fucking boy.

Parking my car, I reach for my bag and get out. Wearing a black latex long-sleeved bodysuit, paired with a matching skintight knee-length skirt with a slit up the front, and my red soles, I head inside. I don’t waste time by knocking, instead entering like I own the place. Which it will feel like for him soon enough.

With my head held high and my body walking with purpose, I make my way through the front entrance and down the hall toward his office, but I’m stopped just before I get there.

“This is my boyfriend, Darian Delacroix. I believe you met him the day my dick was hanging out of a hole in the wall. I hope you don’t mind him joining this evening?” He pauses for effect, but I couldn’t care less. “But don’t tell his wife.”

Before Nathaniel is able to continue with his lackluster joke, his bitch Delicroux pipes up. “Not a fucking chance.”

Nathaniel smirks. “That is not what you were saying back in college.”

Delicroux looks at me, mortified. “Never happened.”

But Sinclair doesn’t stop there. “And our slumber parties,” he adds.

His friend has had enough. Waving his hands in the air, he walks away and mumbles, “He’s talking out of his ass,” before leaving.

Crossing my arms over my chest, my bag hangs off one, and I take Nathaniel in. My pussy tingles as my back stings. He is wearing fitted slacks and a shirt; his tie is discarded, and buttons are undone, revealing his chest. The white sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, exposing strong, tattooed forearms. The silver fox is groomed immaculately, wearing gold wire-framed glasses and black boots.

“What’s in the bag, Ms. Vandenberg?” his deep, husky, and seductive voice questions.

Without missing a beat, I respond, “Your office, and I’ll show you.”

The silver fox steps to the side and holds a hand out, allowing me to lead the way, which I prefer. Adding a sway to my hips, I tease him, slowly sashaying past and leaving him behind as I turn into his space. My backside burns as I feel his eyes watching me.

I hate how much I like it.

His footsteps follow. And by the time he has joined me, I am sat on top of his large desk, legs crossed, and hands resting on either side of me.

“Please, Ms. Vandenberg, make yourself at home,” he insists sarcastically.

Not allowing him to get in my head, I take him in once more, from his silver hair to his thin lips and strong chest. My eyes graze past his cock, and by the time I reach his feet, my words are spoken. “On your knees, Duke. We play by my fucking rules, if we play at all.”