Page 9 of A Merry Invitation
Three days later Slay’s dick was hard as he sat behind his desk at The Corporation Kensington. The late afternoon arousal might not have been so bad—considering he’d been going through this every day since Christmas when his dick had been hard and coated with Willow’s essence—if he’d at least been alone. But today there was a small audience in his office and the last thing he wanted any of them to know was how easily thoughts of this woman aroused him.
Every damn day. That’s how often he’d thought about her, every damn day. Quite possibly every hour of each day. Certainly, that first hour after he’d left her in that hotel room. Because what he’d wanted to do more than he’d ever wanted to do anything else in the world, was stay in that bed with her warm, soft body wrapped around him the way it had been all throughout Christmas night.
It had been a long time since he’d celebrated that holiday in any real way. The card and gift he sent to his mother was the closest he’d come to any type of festivities. There were no decorations in his flat, nothing in his office, even though Verity, the personnel liaison at the club, was a walking Christmas carol with her jingle bell earrings, bracelets and all the mistletoe she’d positioned around the facility.
Willow had been the perfect gift for him on that normally solitary night. She’d stepped onto that stage in that shimmering red dress and lit up his life in a way he hadn’t expected. Sure, he’d sent that invitation and he’d meant to have her beneath him that night, but he hadn’t anticipated how intense that meeting would be. Hadn’t realized it would stick with him the way it had. How many times in the past few days had he reminded himself that it was just pussy?
The tightest, hottest pussy he’d ever had the pleasure of sinking into, but that’s all it was. Getting with her shouldn’t have been anything spectacular—he’d fucked plenty of women before. The earth hadn’t quaked the moment he slipped a finger into her, their zodiac signs or moons hadn’t aligned the second she came in his mouth. They were just two adults having sex and he should’ve been able to get up the next morning and go on about his business as usual. But he hadn’t.
Truthfully, Slay hadn’t thought about a woman this much since Ebony, and he’d married her. Then, she’d left him. So, wanting a woman beyond sex again was something he’d sworn he’d never do. And really, he wasn’t doing that now. He’d simply craved more of the sex with Willow that had surpassed any cataclysmic events and that was entirely justifiable. The sex hadn’t been spectacular, it had been phenomenal, the taste and feel of her wrapped around him was emblazoned on his mind, keeping him in a near-constant state of arousal.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t come across like a pussy-whipped stalker if he contacted her agent again. There was no party or other event for her to perform at. Especially since the performance he hungered for was a private one where the only lyrics she’d be singing was his name over and over again just like she’d done on Christmas night.
“He knew everything,” Ridge Donovan said, his words cutting through Slay’s salacious thoughts about his sexy songbird.
She’d be on stage at Encore tonight at nine-fifteen for a twelve-minute, two-song set and then again at ten-thirty for a four-song, twenty-minute set. What would she sing? What would she be wearing? How would she look at him when her gaze fell over to his corner now that they’d spent a night together? All questions he’d find the answers to as soon as he could get out of here, go home and change his clothes, and get to that nightclub.
“How the hell did he get all that information about an arrangement that was supposed to be private?” Ridge asked, irritation clear in the rasp of his voice.
Slay lifted a hand to run a finger over his jaw. The action giving him another couple of seconds to—firmly this time—shift his thoughts from the pleasure of Willow James to the business that threatened all the good work he’d been doing at this establishment.
The Corporation Kensington had desperately needed to be brought into this generation and Slay knew he was the man to do it. From changing personnel standards, upgrading health screening protocols and redesigning the rooms as well as the technology, he was making his mark in this industry in a way he’d never gotten the chance to do in the NFL.
“Renata was obviously the source,” Slay said, looking to where a member he also called a friend sat in one of the crimson velour cushioned guest chairs.
Ridge Donovan, billionaire oilman and signature member of the club, frowned. In the chair beside him, one of Ridge’s personal security team members, Sage Dunlap, sat with her light brown eyes trained on Slay. Sage was sexy as hell—tall, thick thighs, nice hips and plump breasts. She was also deadly and determined not to let any man under the mistaken impression that she was just a pretty face, forget it.
“Aren’t there rules against that here?” Sage asked, one elegant brow arched.
“Rules,” Slay replied, emphasizing the “s”. “But nothing with real consequences besides an advisory board review.”
The advisory board served as the club’s judicial review panel. They were a group of five members with backgrounds in law, military and politics. All areas that needed to be considered when dealing with clientele that stretched from the US Pentagon to the UK Parliament and any number of influential billionaires in between. Every situation the advisory board dealt with had to be handled with the utmost care so that above all else, the privacy of the members and this entire establishment remained a secret.
“She’s dead now,” Ridge said dryly. “The advisory board can’t help.”
“True,” Slay replied. “But that’s why, when you came in after the police had questioned you about Renata’s death, I agreed to your recommendation of a security team firm coming in to do an overhaul of our protocols and policies where confidentiality is concerned.”
Slay nodded toward Jus, who’d been standing by the door, arms folded across his chest. Justin Murphy was a former Marine trained sniper who’d traded his US Military honors to start a specialized security company. Spades Security Group was unlike any other security-based entity in the world employing only former military, law enforcement and intelligence community operatives for classified and very select clientele. Jus’s almost identical—except for the color of their eyes—twin brother, Quincy “Que” Murphy, was the head of the Donovan family security team here in the UK, but he was also a former Marine and Jus’s partner at Spades.
“Non-Disclosure Agreements with focused language detailing the extent of the club’s retribution for infractions is where we’ll start with staff,” Jus said, his eerie golden-brown eyes bright in the crimson and black themed office.
He’d been onsite at the club and in private meetings with Slay since Ridge had informed them there had been a privacy breach a month ago. Ridge had been made aware of the breach when he’d been questioned by the police who were investigating the murder of one of the club’s staff members, Renata Diallo. Renata had been one of Ridge’s preferred entertainers who’d become pregnant and erroneously claimed Ridge was the father of the child on legal documents as well as telling that same lie to another man she’d been involved with. The other man had turned out to be, Detective Robert Meldrick, who, at a wedding reception on Christmas day, had shot Ridge’s cousin, Trent Donovan, when he’d been aiming at Ridge.
“Retribution?” Ridge asked, an edginess Slay knew well lacing his tone.
“The advisory board has three recourses they utilize for violators of the club’s rules—fines, suspension or revocation of membership.” Slay told him. “All of these options sting without a doubt, but we’re looking for a more lasting effect. Something that will send a clear and potent message.”
“So, anyone found guilty of sharing information about club members, their interactions with club members or any other details about the club, will be ruined,” Jus added. “Credit scores, other jobs lost with great difficulty finding a new one, finances ruined. And depending on the severity of the infraction these repercussions could spill over to the staff member’s family or close acquaintances.”
Sage gave a low whistle. “I like how you think, Jus.”
The man was a trained killer with keen skills on gathering intelligence information, so wreaking this type of havoc was child’s play.
“The idea is that we’re not playing games anymore. Renata compromised more than just your reputation,” Slay told Ridge. “Because she didn’t realize she was dealing with a psychopath masquerading as a cop, she put you and subsequently your family’s life in danger. Not to mention threatening the privacy of this club and all our other members.” Slay shook his head. “That shit’s not gonna fly anymore. From now on, every staff member—current and incoming—will sign the revised NDA. Members will receive copies for each entertainer they associate with.”
“Guests will sign as well,” Jus said and then stepped forward. He stopped by the cherry-wood credenza near the door and picked up a file folder. Moving further into the office, he passed Ridge and Sage a sheet of paper from the folder.
“Que and I drafted the new language of this NDA,” Jus continued. “As soon as Slay gives the green light, we’ll take care of having it executed by everyone in this facility.”
