Page 6 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I forward her messages to Colin and Dean, adding:Gentlemen, commence spoiling.
Colin replies with a GIF of someone tossing money like confetti.
Dean simply types:On it.
I lean back, letting the leather chair creak. Against the glass, the city lights smear, jewel tones on a dark canvas. My mind wanders to Slash—the private club hidden behind an unmarked door in Castleberry Hill. Candlelight, velvet drapes, the hush of negotiated cruelty. The memory surfaces unbidden.
The redhead’s wrists were bound to a suspension bar, her eyes fluttering as Dean cropped soft welts along her thighs, Colin kneeling to soothe each mark with his tongue.
I’d taken the vantage point behind them, orchestrating the tempo with a metronome to signal each smack. Years of command taught me how to calibrate pressure—too much and a system breaks, too little and it stagnates. That was the last time I felt in command of anything.
The grandfather clock chimes seven. I down the remaining Dalmore—now warm—and stand. Muscles protest. I’ve been motionless too long. I stride to the wall panel, dim the lights. I should be readying for bed, but my mind is too busy with memories and hopeful possibilities.
Tomorrow I’ll finalize logistics, instruct the chef on menu—something nostalgic, perhaps Swiss raclette to honor her snow dream. No sense in not spoiling the girl. Massages are in order too. The hotel has a delightful spa—I’ll schedule us some treatments there. The long weekend will be orchestrated for maximum pleasure. I won’t stand for less.
I pause, thumb poised to draft one more email, and realize I feel…alive. It’s not the whisky. It’s the alignment of a plan, the promise of novelty, the prospect of orchestrating an experience no algorithm could autopilot.
I pocket the phone and survey my immaculate domain. The room suddenly looks less like a mausoleum and more like a staging ground. The Copeland brothers will meet an island girl with warm hazel eyes and a laugh like a gull, and we enjoy each other’s company the way it should be enjoyed—unhurried, languid, hot.
The clock ticks—one, two, three. For once, I’m glad it’s counting. Each second is a step closer to her.
“Game on,” I tell the empty room, and for the first time in weeks, the words taste right.
3
DEAN
Numbers—theclean, obedient kind—usually soothe me. Tonight, they glare from three monitors like an angry jury. Unpaid vendor invoices, prep-kitchen overtime, and early Q4 labor projections. Every column blinks red, demanding I plug a leak that wasn’t there when Tic ran the helm.
How did that bastard do it?
I scrub a hand down my face, feel stubble catch on my palm. Our Thanksgiving staycation with the virgin starts tomorrow, but I need to take the edge off now. There’s an ice-machine recall in Texas—for whatever reason, some genius put glass housing inside the ice machines, and after being too cold for too long, they’ve begun to shatter and show up in people’s drinks. A marketing VP in our Tokyo satellite office decided cranberry-turkey bao is the holiday fusion the world has been waiting for.
One hitch after another. Control once fit me like a second skin. Now it pinches. I send a few emails out and step away from the desk. We have district managers for a reason, and they can handle the holiday bullshit. Let them earn their paychecks. It’stime to clear my head, or it will spiral into spreadsheets shaped like her freckles.
Castleberry Hill after dark. Old brick warehouses, new lofts smelling of fresh drywall, graffiti that reads more like manifestos. Slash hides in an alley where the streetlamps burn sodium-orange and the pavement never dries. No sign, just a polished steel door that reflects distorted versions of yourself.
Tony, the doorman, recognizes me, and a green eye-scanner sweeps my face, granting entry. I step into low light, and my senses hit instant overdrive. Bass pounds like a skittering heartbeat. Incense mixes with leather and something sweet—maybe burnt vanilla. Patrons and employees parade about. It’s impossible to know who’s who if you don’t notice the bright red collars that indicate Slash employees.
A hostess in royal purple floor-length velvet escorts me past curtained alcoves, each alive with its own murmured negotiations and cries of pleasure. The club calls itself traditional, and they’re right about that, to a degree. Black walls, dungeon hardware arranged with museum precision, etiquette enforced like federal law.
That formality calms me. Predictable boundaries. Safe chaos.
I take a glass of sparkling water—no liquor right now. I need clarity as I drift to the mezzanine rail. Below, heat and intent weave through writhing and dancing bodies. A scruffy dom ties intricate chest harnesses on a lanky sub. A trio negotiates cane strokes in sign language. I’m not sure if they’re hearing impaired or if they’re too close to a speaker. Nearby, a rope-ridged suspension shimmers crimson under overhead spots. All elegant, all tightly controlled.
It’s that control that helps us relax. Rules set us free.
Usually, I watch to enjoy the art of it all. Knots, rhythm, trust. Tonight, every scene morphs unwillingly in my mind. Her body in place of theirs, my hands winding the rope. Thalassa kneeling, braid swung over one shoulder, hazel eyes dotted with starbursts of surrender.
Ridiculous. I haven’t met the girl. She might hate impact play, might flinch at bondage. But her profile readslooking for conversation as bright as fresh powder—who writes like that if she’s afraid of trying new things?
I sip water, inhale leather tang, exhale a slow eight-count. But the images refuse to fade.
I’ve spent more time than I’ll admit scrolling the screenshots Tic sent. Her smile, the nervous tremble of enthusiasm between every line of her bio, her messages. She wants the kind of novelty we can orchestrate blindfolded, yet I catch myself wanting to fold her into a blanket, spoon her hot cocoa, kiss the tip of her nose when it chills. Domestic foolishness.
Ridiculous. But as I’ve gotten older, the ridiculous has become a goal in the back of my mind, and it’s growing ever more impossible not to project those thoughts onto possibly interested parties. The truth is, there’s a longing I’ve ignored for too long. Something simple, something real.
I want the white picket fence, the two-point-five kids, the wife. But I’m standing in a kink club, watching all manner of perversion instead.
