Page 73 of Seven+Four

URIEL

I leave the room cursing under my breath. My dick remains soft inside my pants. Tonight, I came to the club with one thought inside my head: release. I quickly found a person interested in my sadistic scene, and I went at it as usual. I tied the person up, gagged them, and started to deliver some pain. It usually turns me hard as a rock—the muffled cries, the shivering body, the teary eyes begging for more while red marks appear on their skin.

Tonight I just couldn’t enjoy it. Not even a little. Because the person bent in front of me wasn’t Sari. It was a fraud, a pathetic impostor. Now I know what the real deal feels like, against me, crying my name, with his soft, smooth skin waking all sorts of dark intentions.

All the meaningless, faceless encounters I had in the past became a senseless blur. I got off, they got off, but I wasn’t really present in the moment. Sari’s sweet face was the one I alwayssaw as I chose them and gave them pain, and when I felt really pent up, railed them. They were all pitiful imitations.

But tonight I couldn’t go along with the pretense anymore. I know how fragile the slender line of his neck is, how delicate the curves of his hips feel, the exact red shade his skin turns when I touch him, the softness of his long hair between my fingers, the plumpness of his ass in my hands.

My cock twitches, and I feel a tingle under my restless fingers imagining Sari restrained and screaming under my hands.

“Argh!” I let out an angry growl as I walk barefoot to the main room again.

As soon as the manager sees me, he hurries my way. Fuck!

“Mr. M.,” he addresses me in a whisper. “Your pet?—”

“Not my fucking pet.” I signal the bartender, and he nods, already knowing my usual.

“The…person who was with you in room three came to us to complain.” He looks down at the tablet in his hand. “He claims you released him a few minutes after starting your session and stopped without an explanation.”

“And?” I left my gun in the trunk of the Land Rover. Two minutes to reach the underground garage. Two more to get back and paint the floor with this fucker’s brain matter. I finally get a boner tonight from the mental image.

“Well, this is not the way we do things at Madame Claudette’s,” he affirms with a haughty tone. He’s a fucking ass.

“I didn’t fucking break any rules. One of BDSM’s consent rules states that either of the partners can stop a scene at any point.”I grab the glass of bourbon and take a couple of sips before adding, “I’m sure he’ll find another dom very easily—owner or whatever the fuck you call it.” He came to me all flirty and shit, clearly had a lot of experience, knew exactly what he wanted and what his limits were.

“Even so, upsetting a client like this is not very smart.”And upsetting me is?

I fucking hate this weasel. All he does is lick asses and order the staff around.

“Listen very carefully,” I snarl, getting nose to nose with him. “I own half of this fucking club plus 1 percent, which means I have the power to fire whoever the fuck I want. Right now, I think you’re unnecessary to the profitability of this establishment.”

The realization and then the deep fear filling his eyes already makes me want to keep him just to fuck with him.

“You have thirty seconds to change my mind. Starting now.” I move back to grab my bourbon.

He’s panting, all red in the face, eyes frantically flickering. “You-your guest, he-he arrived fifteen minutes ago or so. I wasn’t notified in advance, but I-I let him in anyway, since you are?—”

“What guest?” I ask in a bored tone.

“Bear-Stone,” he replies quickly.

“Raphael?” He is a member, not a guest.

“N-no.” He looks down at his tablet. “A Sariel Bear-Stone.”

“What?” I slowly growl out. An eerie feeling crawls down my body as every muscle in me tenses. I abruptly grab the manager’s stiff shirt and snap, “Where the fuck is he?”

The manager shivers with terror as the bartender answers for him, “He went toward the rooms, alone.”

“Which room?” I snarl at the manager. There’s no cameras inside the rooms, but there are three in the corridor. I swear to God if someone touched him, I’ll cut off all their fingers and make them eat each one.

The manager checks his damn tablet again, lifting it in the air on the left as I’m still gripping the front of his shirt. Finally he gasps a seven.

I know who usually books that room. The fucker Madame Claudette almost kicked out after he went down too heavily on his partner. He was here before. I saw him. Motherfucking shit!

I shove the manager away and rush toward the corridor. Sari’s body belongs to me. He might be sauntering around with it, but it’s mine. And I’ll turn that body into one that can’t feel anything unless he’s with me.

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