I won’t lie: I’m fucking sad Mia didn’t stay.

Not that I had high hopes of convincing her, and I wasn’t gonna seek her out in the first place, but seeing her in the corridor with that drunk douchebag threw all my good intentions into the gutter.

Girl’s smoking hot.

And it’s not only that. Behind those bright green eyes, that clean façade, there’s a hint of fire that keeps teasing me. Fire, and assertiveness, and a keen attentiveness, as if no word I speak is lost on her. As if she weighs everything I throw at her, everything I hint at and… lets it sink in.

As if she wants to know more. About the Scene.

About me.

Heh. Right. And the prize of wishful thinking goes to Roderick Carter, who thinks he can bring down the Organization, change the world, and win over a girl who clearly has no interest in him.

Except she remembers my name. And the kiss.

Maybe she just has a very good memory. Maybe she remembers what she had for dinner a year ago to the day, or what color the bus driver’s socks were this morning.

Or maybe it’s my name. It is rather unusual, whereas hers is… ordinary, and yet extraordinary.

Mia Taylor, according to the very chatty receptionist. She has only been here a couple of months, and she’s quiet, efficient, punctual… A model employee.

Nothing interesting there. I tried a more generous tip, but it didn’t garner better results. Date of birth, previous experience, qualifications. All perfect. Previous place of employment is a hotel I never heard of before, in Chicago.

Anyway… I wonder if she also changed the linens there, or did something else, something more... Not that I think she was a leather-dressed dominatrix who found Jesus, but still. There’s something about her that keeps tugging at my attention. That flash of fire in her eyes. That challenge, that refusal to submit.

Oh yeah, she is intriguing all right, and no matter how I tell myself to keep to the plan, focus on the owner of this hotel, I know I can’t let her go.

At least not without another kiss.

* * *

Reverting to the original plan, I call for a girl to be brought up to my room. Not doing so would be to invite suspicion, and bribing the desk boy for info on a pretty employee is one thing, but renting a pain suite and staying up here alone all night is sure to cause wagging tongues to talk.

Like, what would I do up here alone? Self-flagellate? I do that enough in my mind, thank you very much.

The girl they send up is pretending to be Harley Quinn in leather, and it doesn’t really do it for me.

Not that I want to fuck her. Meeting Mia ruined my mood. Getting lashed again so soon might also be a bad idea. So I switch things around a little. Nothing fancy.

I like pain. But I’m not a sub by any stretch of the imagination.

I tell the girl she’s the one who’s getting tied up, and she says okay. Needing to let off some steam, I tie her up on the bench, legs wide open, and gag her, my mood darkening when I realize I can’t muster up much excitement anyway.

She’s all wrong. She isn’t Mia, dammit, and despite her hair that’s dyed white-blond with blue and pink streaks, with her mouth painted red, her black corset, mini skirt, and tall boots, it’s the same old as always.

Didn’t use to bother me.

Sure as hell bothers me now.

The girl whose name I didn’t even bother to ask stares at me over the gagball, her eyes heavy-lidded. She likes this, likes being tied up. She likes me, too, I can tell from the way her body shifts and the heat in her gaze. I’m a sexy motherfucker, what can I say?

She would like me to spread her wider, shove my cock inside her, make her scream behind her gag as she comes.

Instead, I leave her there, open the far window looking over the city and light up a smoke, welcoming the cold that stings my skin.

What the fuck is going on with me? I come here all the time, use the girls, sometimes have the guys lash me. I get off on sex or pain or both, sleep it off and go home, no harm done. Just a release.

Getting obsessed with a maid who likes to talk back isn’t healthy. At this point in my life, a misstep could prove deadly. And I have a mission I can’t fail.

Returning inside, I untie the unnamed girl. “Thanks. We’re done for tonight.” I tuck a hundred-dollar tip into her cleavage, and turn my back. “Good night.”

“But…” She rubs fitfully at the faint red marks on her wrists. They will fade within the hour. “But we haven’t…”

That’s right, we haven’t. “I have a headache,” I turn to inform her, and have to suppress the urge to laugh at her stormy expression. “So long.”

Her eyes widen, and tears glimmer on her fake lashes. Then she stalks out, and all amusement leaves me.

That was a jackass move.

But I can’t find it in me to care. Sex was always important to me—but not my partners. I need the pain, and I need the game, but any pussy is good, just like any whip on my back or shackles on my wrists.

Tonight, though… I can’t.

It’s the stress, I tell myself. God, I wish Logan were here to whip me bloody and make me forget.

Lacking that option, I shed my clothes and step into the bathroom. The multi-jet shower lights up with colors when I turn it on, and I stand under the hot water, bracing my hands on the wall, letting it massage my upper back and shoulders.

Think, Rook, think. How are you going to go about unmasking Ian Cronin? How will you get your proof, outwitting the fox who’s outwitted everyone else?

I guess I’ll just have to start somewhere and go from there. Eavesdrop. Find an excuse to get closer. Ask other customers, ask the employees, bribe them for info.

Ask Mia.

The thought of her is a jolt to my dick, and I grunt, pressing my forehead to the cool black tiles, their surface rough against my hot skin. How can that girl get me hard when others have to hurt me to get me there? Makes no fucking sense.

She’s a riddle. An enigma.

I want to show her what it’s all about. The Scene, the pain, the trust it takes. I want to be her teacher, lie under her as she tortures me sweetly, as she rides me…

Hell. Reaching down, I fist my hard-on and grit my teeth at the tightening vise of pleasure. Just the thought of her, the image of her on top of me, has me so hard I ache with it. Stroking faster now, one hand braced against the shower wall, the other tightening around my dick, I picture her face, her tits, the feel of her around my dick, and bite on the inside of my cheek, a groan rising in my throat.

Fuck, yeah. I’d let her tie me up, even put damn nipple clamps on me, a cock ring… whatever she wants. Lash me, gag me.

Draw out the agony of needing her. Let her take her pleasure on my cock as I writhe underneath her, not granted release.

I rock into my hand, fucking my fist, my eyes screwed shut. My breath is coming in uneven pants, the pressure in my balls verging on pain, and it’s so good…

She’d come, again and again, her hands on my chest, her tits in my face, her pussy hot and tight and clenching around my dick, and I’d just watch and feel and suffer.

Fuck, I’m close… I’m jacking myself faster now, harder, my legs shaking, the need for release excruciating.

And then… then I’d push her down on the bed and thrust inside her, make her come all over again, until I can’t take it anymore, and then she’d take off the cock ring, and I’d explode and die for a while, the world going black, nothing left but me and her.

Dying…

I groan, my cum splashing the tiles, my body jerking. I curse, taken by surprise at the force of it, my control snapping so suddenly, unexpectedly. I’m damn proud of my control.

Panting, I switch the jets into the overhead shower and turn my face up into the warm spray. Goddammit.

I’m here for a reason other than pleasure, other than satisfying my own needs. I have a plan to implement, and it’s time to start right about now.

* * *

The hotel is not quiet. As I walk through long corridors carpeted in plush red velvet, the walls covered in gilded mirrors, I feel a hum coming through the walls.

Voices. Moans. A shout. A thud. A murmur.

So many people. So much need and pain.

So much pleasure.

This is a good place. I’ve often lost myself in the pain-pleasure game over the years, let my body be taken to the extreme ends of sensation, rested my mind as my body reacted beyond my conscious will. Came out refreshed, ready to tackle my life, and this fucking complicated world.

Not that this is an innocent place. Nothing about it is innocent. It caters to our dark desires, our hidden needs. We are the high-class rejects of our society, and this is where we wash up.

But I never thought it was a den of wolves.

Pain and pleasure are pure things. Controlling and compelling the body to its limits, finding that special mind-space where you can fly free… it’s a beautiful thing.

What Cronin is doing is ugly as fuck.

His name makes my stomach twist every single time. I can see his face in my mind’s eye, those dark eyes similar to mine.

But that’s where the similarity stops. I’m nothing like him, and so help me God, I’ll bring him down.

My feet bare, my shirt unbuttoned, an empty glass in my hand and my hair still wet from the shower, I take the elevator and ride down. What’s an inebriated customer to do when his expensive Scotch has run out? Does he call the reception desk or hotel services to ask for another? Does he call one of the escorts, like the girl I just kicked out?

Nope. He goes wandering, talking to whomever and groping any employee within reach, just like that sick fuck trying to molest Mia earlier.

Anger tightens my muscles around my bones, and I have trouble letting go as the doors ding open and I step outside.

Get into your role, Rook. Right the hell now.

“Hey…” I greet the first person I see, a buttoned-up bellhop with one of those funny blue hats by raising my glass. “S’up? You look like you could use a drink.”

“Sir,” he says, nodding, a spark of surprise crossing his face. “May I help you, sir?”

“Nah. Gonna go get me a refill.” I wave my glass again, like the excuse it is, and lurch ahead. “Don’t worry about me, I know the way to the bar.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies dutifully, no doubt having seen many a drunk customer stumble by—drunk on drink, drunk on pain or sex. Who the hell cares, right? We all have our means of escape from reality.

I slow my steps. The bar isn’t where I hope to get answers, though it’s a convenient destination to claim. The guy behind the reception desk is the same one as earlier, and I don’t want to talk to him again, not to raise suspicions.

So I flop into the first leather sofa I find in the lobby and wait for a possible victim to pass by.