Page 107 of Nash

Having sex with Jace, too? Just once?

How weird is it to admit I’m not against it? Jace looks like a bad and beautiful man, and he’s been good to me. I trust that for one night, he’d make it okay. He wouldn’t treat me like trash; he’d treat me like a treasure. Nash’s treasure. If anyone can make this work for me and Nash, it’s Jace.

“What do you meantwice?” I ask again.

“Once as a test. Once for the initiation. Meet with The Queen,” he answers, “and she’ll explain.”

It’s weird entering the club without showing my ID or surrendering my phone. With Nash holding my hand, security lets us in unchecked.

It’s a Saturday night, and the club is full. Scanning the crowd, I smile, realizing tonight’s fetish theme is CFNM—clothed female, naked male.

The soaring cocks everywhere make Nash yank my hand. “Don’t look,” he barks.

“Okay.” I keep my eyes wide open.

He turns around and catches me admiring a long, pierced one. And when I say admiring … I mean drooling and unable to look away, stumbling right into him.

He growls, “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”

“Will you pierce yours for me?”

“My cock?” He sounds appalled.

“No, your tongue.” I bat my lashes. “I promise to keep my mouth shut if yours with a barbell piercing is licking my pussy every day.”

He laughs. “Your pussy is making a promiseyourmouth can’t keep.”

“Uh!” I stomp. “I can shut up.”

He turns around, still laughing and tugging my hand. “Search ‘impossible’ in the dictionary, and you, shutting up, is the example.”

I want to snark back, but as we reach the end of the long corridor at the back of the club, Nash presses a code into a keypad, and I’m too curious.

A black door unlocks, and he holds it open, ushering me up the stairs. I guess I knew there were multiple levels, given that the building is three stories, but I was too busy searching for my orgasm on the first floor.

But up here? It looks like a parlor in a Russian palace. Jeweled-color velvets. Ornate gold and wooden furniture. The Czarina, The Queen, sitting behind her desk.

Ms. Faye waves us in while she talks on a hand-held radio. “Break his finger,” she orders. “He knew the rules. No touching without asking.”

The man on her radio asks, “Right hand or left?”

“Is he wearing a wedding ring?”

“He has a pale ring line where one should be.”

“Good,” she answers. “Break his wedding finger so his poor wife can know he’s a cheating bastard. Then break two more because he’s an orange shit stain who thinks he can grab a pussy and get away with sexual battery.” She grins. “Not in my world.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers.

She puts her radio down and rushes to hug me. “Vale,” she coos. “What a pleasure to finally meet you. For real, this time.”

I hug her back. “Thank you, Ms. Faye.”

Have I always admired her? Yes. Am I building a shrine to her now? Pour the concrete.

“Honey,” she says. “Call me Nadine, and take a seat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer, sitting on the amethyst sofa.

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