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.
He towers over me, his hands clenched into fists. I stay right where I am, not giving him the courtesy of standing up to meet him face-to-face.
“Where is she?” he demands.
I take a long sip of my drink.
“Where is who?” I say blandly.
Callum’s face is rigid with rage, his shoulders like stone. I can tell he wants to jump on me. He may only be held back by the fact that Simon has just appeared at my side, drawn by the clear signs of impending confrontation. Simon raises an eyebrow, asking if he should intercede. I lift an index finger off my glass, telling him to wait.
Spitting out each word as if it’s painful, Callum says, “I know you have Nessa. I want her back—NOW.”
I lazily swirl the ice cubes around in my glass. The music is too loud to hear the sound they make, chinking together.
Keeping the bored expression fixed on my face, I say, “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The club is dark, but not too dark to see the pulse jumping in the corner of Callum’s jaw. I know he wants to hit me more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. His struggle to deny that impulse is beautiful to behold.
“If