Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Nestled in a suburban border town in southern Texas, the invite-only establishment was older than his twenty-five years. It hadn’t always been a swinger’s club, but as laws cracked down on prostitution, The Velvet Den evolved. Money still exchanged hands after a sweaty fuckfest in a private room, but no one spoke of those transactions. A narc would lose more than his membership.
The club owner didn’t just enforce the rules, authorize the contracts, and hire the well-vetted staff. She set the mood, simply through the elegance and grace of her presence.
As he scanned the room for her long blond hair and voluptuous body, her husky voice caressed his back.
“Your guest has arrived, darling.”
“Lela,” he breathed, turning to meet the sharp green eyes of his oldest friend. “It’s good to see you.”
“Is it?” Her plump, red-painted lips pouted her disapproval. “You never visit. I’m under the impression you don’t miss me at all.”
“You know that’s not true.” He wrapped his arms around her and smoothed a hand down the corset’s lacing along her spine. “I’ve missed you more than you know.”
Hard to believe she was in her forties. She didn’t look a day older than thirty. He could still picture her towering over him and pommeling his ass for the mischief he’d stirred up as a boy.
She framed his face and caressed her lips against his. The lingering kiss, the exotic aroma of her shampoo, and the press of her fingers against his jaw—all of it filled him with warm memories.
The Velvet Den was his home, and while Madame Lela Pearl wasn’t his mother, she was the closest thing he ever had to one.
“Thank you for letting me hold my meeting here.” He glanced over his shoulder, searching the crowd. “Where’s my guest?”
“I set him up in the Cognac Room.” She trailed a blood-red fingernail down the placket of buttons on his shirt. “Unless you prefer a room with more privacy.”
“It’s not that kind of meeting.”
“No?” Disappointment creased her pretty features. “I hoped you returned to work for me again.”
“Lela—”
“You’re even more handsome than you were as a boy. Stronger. More virile.” She petted his bicep. “The ladies would empty their purses to experience your dominant nature.”
His stomach buckled. The clientele tended to be older, with marriage, careers, and kids behind them. Too old for the downtown club scene, they came here with unique proclivities, looking to quench darker appetites.
It didn’t matter. Young or old, male or female, locals or out-of-towners, no one would be paying him for sex. Never again.
“I don’t need money.” He caught her arm and gently set her away. “There’s more to life than getting off.”
Her eyes bugged. “Shut your mouth. I raised you better than that.” She propped her fists on the flare of her hips. “Have you forgotten what it feels like to fuck without commitment or strings—?” She snapped her teeth together, eyes growing wider. “Oh shit. Are you in love?”
That was only part of it. She didn’t know what happened to him when he disappeared from The Velvet Den’s parking lot six years ago. He was nineteen when Van Quiso took him at gunpoint and raped him for ten weeks in a soundproof attic.
She assumed he ran away, and he let her hold onto that belief. The truth would wreck her.
“Yes, there is someone.” He averted his gaze, unable to hide the resentment in his expression.
“But?”
“She’s engaged.”
“So? Win her away from her fiancé.”
“They belong together, and I love her enough to let her have that. To let her go.”
It’d been four years since Matias approached him in that Austin bar. Four of the most miserable years of his life. After going along with Matias’ plan, watching Camila reunite with him, and losing her completely when she moved to Colombia, Tate no longer wanted to stay in the Austin house he’d shared with her.
Visiting her a few times in Colombia hadn’t helped his miserable jealousy.
So he came here.
Home.
But it wasn’t the same.
No, he wasn’t the same.
“My guest is waiting.” He kissed the top of Lela’s head. “I’ll stay a few days, maybe longer, okay? We’ll catch up.”
“Very well.” She fussed with the collar of his shirt. “I’ll have a room prepared for you. Stay as long as you want.”
“Thank you.”
He turned back down the hall, slipped into a stairwell, and exited one floor below. The same dark furnishings adorned the Cognac Room, but the pungent aroma of cigars deterred non-smokers from using this space.
A bald man reclined on a couch, his trousers unzipped beneath the bobbing head of a young woman. Nearby, several other couples engaged in various forms of fornication and sexual orientation. Across the room, a topless dancer writhed on a pole, grinding to the low volume of club music.
An attractive man sat alone at a table a few feet from her. He was the only man in the room who could’ve been Cole Hartman. Tate’s guest.