Her eyes snap open and she tears herself away from me, an expression of horror on her face.

Now she’s looking at me. Now she’s seeing me—with complete revulsion.

“Don’t touch me!” she cries.

I feel a bitter stab of satisfaction, seeing her wrenched back down so abruptly. She thinks she can float up to heaven whenever she likes? Well, I’ll drag her all the way down to hell with me.

“Go back to your room,” I tell her, taking pleasure in dismissing her at my will. She’s my prisoner, and she better not forget it. I might give her the run of the house, but that doesn’t change our dynamic. She eats when I say. She wears what I say. She comes when I say. And she goes when I say.

She’s only too happy to leave. She runs away, the hem of the green silk dress flowing behind her like a cape.

Once she’s gone, I expect to return to my usual state of apathy. Nessa is just a blip on my radar—a momentary jolt that disappears again just as quickly.

But not tonight. Her scent lingers in my nostrils—sweet almond and red wine. My fingertips can still feel the softness of her skin.

Even after I pour myself a drink and gulp it down, I still feel agitated and aroused. My cock is uncomfortably stiff against my leg, remembering the feeling of Nessa’s slim thigh pressed against it, with only my trousers and a very small amount of silk between us.

I leave the house, and I drive over to Jungle, weaving through the nighttime traffic. I drive a Tesla because it’s the perfect stealth wealth car. It looks like just another black sedan and draws no attention from the cops, despite costing me $168,000 fully loaded. The acceleration is like a drop off a roller coaster. My stomach lurches as I whip around the corner, utterly silent.

I park behind the club and enter through the back door, nodding to the bouncer as I pass.

I head straight for the main bar, pushing through the crush of drunken patrons. Petra is slammed with drink orders. She abandons them when I jerk my head toward my office, telling her to follow me.

She’s wearing a bikini-style top that barely contains her tits, and cutoff shorts that expose the bottom half of her ass. She’s got that septum piercing I detest, as well as the ones in her ears, eyebrow, and bellybutton. I couldn’t give a shit about any of it. She could be wearing a gorilla suit and I wouldn’t care, as long as it provided access to the part of her I need.

“I didn’t think you were coming in tonight,” she purrs, following me into the office.

“I wasn’t,” I say shortly.

I close the door behind us and yank down the front of her top, making her tits spill out. Usually I like watching them bounce around while I fuck her, but tonight the sight of all that flesh just seems . . . excessive.

I flip her around and bend her over the desk instead. The backside isn’t any better. Her big, round ass is turning me off in a way it didn’t before, the same with the gamey scent of her sweat and her heavy perfume, which doesn’t cover up the fact that she’s been smoking. None of that bothered me. Now all of a sudden it does.

My cock hasn’t caught up with my brain, however. It’s still raging from earlier, springing free of my pants and jabbing between Petra’s asscheeks.

“You’re ready to go,” she remarks in a pleased tone.

Sometimes it takes a while for her to get me “ready to go.” Sometimes I’m not ready at all, even after thirty minutes of her sucking my cock, and I send her away without finishing.

Tonight, I’ve got enough pent-up aggression to fuck the entire lineup of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Without any foreplay, I slide on a condom and I ram my cock into Petra from behind, fucking her into the desk. Every thrust makes the desk jolt against the floor. It sends ripples across the flesh of Petra’s ample ass.

She’s moaning and urging me on, as vocal as a porn star. About as creative as one too—her cries of “Oh! Oh! That’s it! Harder!” sound scripted. Plus, they’re getting louder by the minute.

“Shut up,” I growl, gripping her hips and trying to focus.

Petra sinks into sullen silence.

I close my eyes, trying to recapture that sense of anxious arousal that brought me over here, that desperate need for release.

Instead, I remember the feeling of my hand on Nessa’s bare back, sandwiched between her warm skin and her cool, silky hair. I remember how gracefully she moved across the floor, as if her feet weren’t even touching the ground. I picture the pleasure on her face, eyes closed, and lips parted . . .

I explode inside of Petra, filling the condom with an excessive load of cum. I grip the base of it as I withdraw, not wanting to risk spilling a single drop of it inside of her. I’ve seen the way Petra drains men dry of tips—I don’t even want to know the price she’d demand for an abortion.

Petra stands up and pulls up her shorts, a smug smile on her face. That’s the fastest she’s ever made me cum, so she’s feeling pretty proud of herself.

“You must have been missing me,” she says, playfully drumming her fingers on my chest.

I step out of her reach, dropping the condom in the trash.

“Not even a little bit,” I reply.

Her smile falls off her face and she scowls at me, one tit still hanging out of her top. It looks lopsided and udderish, and makes me feel queasy.

“You know, you should be nicer to me,” she says angrily. “I get plenty of offers from other guys. And from other bars, too.”

I should never have fucked her more than once. It gives women the wrong idea. Makes them think you came back to them out of something more than convenience.

“This is over,” I tell her. “You can keep working here or not.”

She stares at me in shock, mouth hanging open.

“What!?”

“You heard me. If you want to stay, get back behind the bar. And fix your top.”

I hold open the door for her, not out of chivalry, but to get her to leave faster.

I can tell she wants to scream at me, but she’s not stupid enough to do it. Instead she storms out, without putting her breast back where it belongs. Oh, well. The customers will enjoy it.

I sink down in my chair, feeling moody and discontent.

Fucking Petra didn’t give me the release I craved. In fact, I feel worse than ever—stressed and unsatisfied.

I head back out into the club, kicking a group of obnoxious finance types out of one of the VIP booths so I can sit there myself. I have the waitress bring me a bottle of Magnum Gray Goose, chilled, and I slug down a triple shot.

Not ten minutes later, something fantastic happens. Callum Griffin walks through my door. He’s dressed in a stylish dark suit as per usual. But he’s not looking nearly as well-groomed. His face is unshaven, his hair in need of a cut. Dark bags hang under his eyes.

The last time I saw him up close, he was strung up from a meat hook while Zajac went to work on him. He doesn’t look much better tonight. Torture of the mind is as effective as torture of the body.

I know he doesn’t have a weapon on him, having come through the metal detectors at the door. Still, I hope he’s stupid enough to attack me. I’d love to show him that his escape from the slaughterhouse was nothing more than a fluke.

His eyes sweep around the room, searching. As soon as they land on me, he strides toward me, knocking several people out of his path with his shoulders.