Ruthless: Chapter 2

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Jesus, I need to get laid.

The last few months of my life have been one big shit-show at the office, and it’s made me into a giant ball of pent up tension I can’t seem to release, no matter what I do. My usual form of destressing—stripping with my buddies for horny suburbanites in their homes—hasn’t done a damn thing to help. If it hadn’t meant so much to Chance that I come out tonight, I would have stayed home and spent quality time with a bottle of Glenfiddich.

As I enter the men’s room and head to a urinal to break the seal, I try to figure out what my deal is. I’d decided what to do about my career, so I should feel better. Usually once I make a decision, I feel more in control of life’s variables, and the more control I have in any given situation, the more at ease I am. Leaving my dad’s firm, where I’m thought of as “Bill’s son” instead of my own person, to start my own practice with one of my law school friends is a huge risk, but one I’m looking forward to.

The only thing I can think of is that I haven’t indulged in any of the “bonus dances” made available to me over the past few months. Several clients invited me into their beds, but I’d turned them down for reasons that still aren’t clear to me. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to them, or wasn’t in the mood to fuck, because seriously, what kind of a man would I be if I wasn’t in the mood to sink myself between a woman’s legs? It’s that I knew they couldn’t offer me what I really want in a woman.

Don’t ask me to explain what that is, exactly. As eloquent as I am when cross-examining a witness or delivering my closing arguments, I can’t seem to put my deepest desires into words.

On the surface, it sounds simple. I want someone who enjoys being shared with another man on occasion. But if that were all, then I wouldn’t have any problems finding it. There are plenty of girls who will fall all over themselves to experience a night with me and my two best friends—Chance Danvers and Austin Massey. Everyone has a good time. We give her all our attention and make damn sure we wring every last orgasm out of her before taking our own. (We’re considerate like that.)

Not only are those guys my best friends since we were fifteen, we’re also co-owners of a strippers-for-hire business that we started up during our college days. Sexually, the things we’re into are different for each of us, but when it comes right down to it, we’re all kinky fuckers. Like I said, my thing is sharing, and it’s something the guys have been more than happy to help me out with for the better part of a decade. That is until Danvers fell in love with Jane and took up monogamy. That’s cool, though. I’m really happy for them. Jane’s a great girl, and we’ve become friends.

Which reminds me of the reason I won’t be dipping my wick where I’d like to tonight.


If you Google “man-eater,” you’ll get a GIF of her tossing her long blond hair over her shoulder and leveling you with the same look an injured zebra sees seconds before the lioness lunges for its throat.

And it makes my cock hard as hell.

Like my friends, I’m a stereotypical alpha male. I’m dominant as fuck, and whether I’m in the courtroom or the bedroom, I’m always in control. My preferred sexual partners are submissive, obviously, but that doesn’t mean I like them meek and automatically obedient. Where’s the fun in controlling someone who wants to be ordered around? No, I’d much rather bed and tame a wildcat like Addison. One who enjoys the initial push and pull of dominance between us; who’ll hiss, claw, and bite, making it all the more gratifying when she eventually submits and purrs at my slightest touch. That’s what I call fun.

But it’s still not enough to keep my attention long-term, not without the option of bringing someone else in. I want to control her pleasure in other ways, by dictating what happens to her and what doesn’t. How she receives her orgasms and by whom. Maybe I join in, maybe I just direct; the choice is mine, and mine alone. That’s the ultimate sexual high for me.

The thought of doing that with Addison is putting me even more on edge because I know I won’t ever get the opportunity to screw her missionary-style, much less my style. She’s Jane’s best friend, which means as far as I’m concerned, she might as well be a nun. Too bad she’s not dressed like one. It’d make things a hell of a lot easier on me. Instead she has on a dress that only covers her from ass to nipples. I’d had to go dance just to keep my gaze from zeroing in on her tits like a goddamned homing device.

I zip up and wash my hands. My reflection in the water-spotted mirror is a complete departure from what stares back at me ninety-five percent of the time. Usually, I’m clean-shaven with my hair combed down. I don’t wear earrings, I change out the silver ball in my tongue for a and I sure as hell don’t edge my eyelids with black liner. My expensive, tailored suits are the finishing touch in my transformation, hiding the colorful tattoos covering most of my upper body. It might sound ridiculous, but I could pull off some James Bond kind of escape shit if I went into a room looking like my attorney-self and came back out as my casual-self. I won’t use the words fake and real, because they’re both the real me. I’m just two very different sides of the same coin.

Finished at the sink, I dry my hands and mentally prepare myself to go back out there and avoid Addison. Another hour and I can take off without causing any suspicion with Chance. I should spend this time finding someone I can take home. Maybe Austin or Liam would be interested in coming along for the ride.

I pull the door open and step into the semi-crowded hallway. The first thing my eyes land on is Addison—that purple dress straining to contain her ample chest, those over-the-knee boots that conjure images of her wearing them and nothing else, and her long, blond hair ripe for pulling—walking toward the rear exit. And she’s leading a man behind her.

As she passes me, she gives her hair a light toss and winks at me, then focuses on the smug douche who’s following her like a puppy. Pathetic. He’s no match for her; she’ll eat him alive and spit out the bones.

Not that I give a shit. She’s a big girl and can do whatever or whomever she wants. But as I watch her duck out the steel door into the back alley, my fists clench in irritation. What the hell is she doing? It’s one thing to mess around with someone, but a total stranger in the dark alley of a club? If she screams, no one will hear her. No one will come to her rescue.

Like no one came to Rhona’s.

My older sister was sexually assaulted at a party in college. She’d accepted a drink she didn’t get herself and woke up the next morning half-naked with no memory of what happened. Tests had proved that she’d been physically violated, but no one came forward with any information. Roofied and raped, her entire world had been blown apart in the blink of an eye. Now every time I take an alleged rapist to court, I imagine it’s the fucking coward who drugged my sister.

I hate that I wasn’t there to look out for Rhona, to protect her, but I can do something about this. I have no business interfering in Addison’s affairs, and the odds of anything bad happening are slim. But I can’t let this go.

Addison is being careless with her safety. And as I stalk to the back exit, I tell myself that her well being is the only reason I’m about to ruin her fun with a much lesser man than me.

* * *

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