CHAPTER 49: WELCOME TO THE DEEP END

The car door hissed open.

Nash stepped out into a thick, humid wall of perfume and smoke. The bass was everywhere, like someone had hidden a giant heartbeat under the sidewalk and cranked it up just for kicks.

It was hot, not weather hot, but the kind of heat people carried with them, sticky, heavy, full of want.

Desire hung out here, no question. It pressed against Nash’s skin, crawling in before anybody even touched him.

Victoria took off ahead like she owned the city, heels cracking like tiny gunshots. The crowd made way for her, parted like some biblical thing, only with more sequins.

Those escorts, all lips and legs, slowed down to stare. Guys in shiny suits tried not to be obvious, but their necks nearly snapped. Even the big guys guarding the velvet rope seemed to stand up straighter.

It was clear that this woman wasn’t anybody here.

People showed no jokes, no winks, just pure respect.

Nash trailed after, eyes glued to Victoria’s hips. Hard not to.

The club inhaled as they walked in.

Midnight Rest, calling it a club felt like a lie. It was more like a spell, a voice whispering in your head that you could have every damn thing you ever wanted if you just quit pretending you didn’t care.

Inside, the first chamber of Hell. Darkness, heat, red everywhere. Red on the walls, red dripping out of the lights, red smeared on skin. Blood, lipstick, the color of someone biting your neck.

The floor was wet and shimmery, like someone spilled a barrel of cheap merlot.

Above the mob, girls spun in circles, wrapped around metal hoops, legs open, skin shiny with sweat and oil. They twisted and moaned, laughing at the world below.

Poles gripped between their thighs. Lips curling, inviting trouble. One girl, her thong holding on for dear life, moved her hips in slow motion, rubbing her hips like she wanted everyone watching to feel it. Her fingers slid between her legs, then up her body, and into her mouth.

A woman straddled a guy right on the bar, bouncing hard enough to rattle the bottles. Her laugh turned into a yelp when he slapped her bare ass, loud enough to get a cheer.

Another girl, naked except for high heels and a collar, crawled between tables, licking spilled drinks off thighs and shoes.

Then the stage hit like a slap.

Spotlight. Red hair, unreal body, not a day over twenty-five... or maybe she’d always been this age. She was naked, save for boots, riding a dude in a suit like he was part of the furniture.

She faced away, hips moving brutal and quick. The sounds, wet, sharp, skin pounding skin, all tangled up with the music.

smack-smack-smack.

Her moans, raw and loud, mixed right in.

"Nnhh...ah...f-fuck, yes!"

Her ass hit him again and again, each bounce making a loud slap. Sweat flew off her body. Her thighs shook. The wet sounds between them—schlick, schlick, schlick—cut through the beat. She was dripping, her slickness shining between her cheeks.

She reached back, grabbed his hair. He groaned, mouth open, teeth clenched. They kissed rough and deep, their faces messy. Her breasts bounced with every thrust. His breath sped up, panting.

"F-fuck!" he shouted.

She threw her head back and screamed.

He came hard, moaning into her shoulder, body shaking. Money flew from his hand. He didn’t even look. The crowd cheered and clapped. Someone whistled.

She stayed on top, grinding slowly, pulling the last tremble out of him. She moaned into his ear, then laughed when he slapped her again.

Nash gulped.

This wasn’t a club. This was a damn temple. A church of bodies and sweat and release. Prayers here were moans, and the only communion was spit and come.

Victoria never looked back. Just prowled ahead, hips swinging, queen of the jungle. You’d swear the place belonged to her the way everyone fell back. The bass growled low, but her voice sliced right through, cool and bored.

"So, Nash, enjoying the freakshow?" she tossed over her shoulder, barely slowing down.

He didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but a girl in a tight bunny outfit stepped up fast. Her breasts spilled out of the costume as she held up a velvet box.

Victoria opened it, dropped in her sunglasses without looking, and just as smooth, another bunny came forward, same outfit, same face, offering a second box.

"That’s the milking zone," she said, nodding at the stage. The crowd there was still losing their minds. "Where the big spenders go to get their money dried up."

And then she was gone again, strutting like she owned the universe.

"You, Nash... you’re headed where the real players get in."

She led him to a sleek elevator tucked behind a velvet curtain. Inside, a man had the hostess lifted off the floor, her back pressed hard to the mirrored wall.

Her legs were wrapped around his waist, heels dangling, arms hooked around his neck. The dude’s just going at it, each thrust making her body smack the glass hard enough to fog it up.

Sweat rolled down their skin, leaving streaks on the glass, drops fell from her thigh to the carpet. You could probably wring the sex out of the air

Her wild smile stayed even as she gasped for breath.

"M-madam... wel—welcome," she managed, voice all wobbly and breathless.

One hand’s scrabbling for the railing, the other just digging into the guy’s shoulder for dear life. She kept talking, somehow, like she was determined to finish her shift and her orgasm at the same time.

Victoria barely bats an eye. Like, this was Tuesday for her.

"Top floor," she said, cool as ice.

The hostess, still taking the pounding of her life, stretched out to jab the button, her arm shaking so hard she almost missed. Then she launched into a report, words tripping over moans, just totally falling apart.

"Main bar... f-full... oh god... three suites—occupied... ah—stage’s up... forty percent—mmm..."

Every word interrupted by a gasp or a cry, the wet slap of bodies echoing in the tiny box. Her thigh’s gleaming, juices dripping down her inner thigh, glistening in the low light.

The guy grunted and hoisted her higher, hammering away, and she was barely managing to sound like she was in charge.

"Security... good... ah, fuck... tabs—settled..."

Then she shuddered, nails carving lines into his back, and a second later, he let out this low groan and spilled inside her.

He lets her down easy, breathing like he ran a marathon, grinning like he just hit the lottery. She smoothed her dress and shot him a half-smug look.

"That’ll be 300 credits," she said, sweet as syrup.

He looked like he just swallowed a bug.

"Three hundred? Wasn’t it a hundred?"

"That’s a hundred for the hostess in the bar," she said sweetly. "With me, that makes two. And unprotected is another hundred. Three hundred."

He looked ready to argue, but Victoria’s presence hit him like a warning, sharp, heavy, dangerous. He swallowed instead.

The elevator chimed, doors opening.

The hostess stepped out with a stack of bills, all smiles.

"Thank you for your patronage. We look forward to your next visit."

The man walked away slowly, looking like he’d just lost his life.

Victoria’s eyes flicked to Nash.

"Follow me," she said.

From Nash’s view, this whole place was another planet.

His head still swam from the club’s heat, the scents of perfume and sweat, the pounding bass. It had been too much, too many bodies, too much noise, too many things his eyes wanted to follow at once. He felt torn between worry and a dizzy pull of fascination.

The hostess, counting her fresh stack of bills, caught his gaze. She gave a sly smile.

"Sir, you should follow the madam," she said in a husky, teasing tone. "She doesn’t ask twice."

Nash glanced at Victoria’s back; she was already moving, not once looking over her shoulder. The hostess stepped aside, her gaze dropping to the shape in his pants.

Her smirk widened. As he passed, her hand slid boldly across him, a slow, delicate touch on his crotch.

"Hey, handsome, if you need to blow off some stress later," she murmured, "you know where to find me."

He swallowed. He hadn’t even realized how hard he was, how his body had been reacting from the moment he stepped out of the car.

His libido was too strong.

He followed Victoria out of the elevator and into a hallway that looked nothing like the chaos downstairs. It was like walking into the top floor of a luxury hotel, black, red, and neon accents glowing softly, marble underfoot, the air cool and perfumed.

She led him through a door, away from the chaos, straight into a room that looked like some high-roller’s secret dining den.

The club’s thumping beat was gone, just this hush, thick and heavy, like money could buy silence too.

No stiff-backed chairs here. Just one oversized sofa, deep enough to eat someone alive, facing a black-glass table that looked way too expensive for actual use.

Warm, moody light puddled over the wood, glinting off untouched plates of food and a bottle of wine that probably cost more than his rent.

Someone had set this up with almost obnoxious precision, the chill in the air, those curtains swallowing up any hint of the outside world.

Victoria waved at the couch.

"Sit."

He dropped onto the cushions, which didn’t so much support him as trap him, the quiet crowding in, thick as velvet.

She didn’t even glance his way. Just grabbed a ridiculously sleek phone from the table, thumbed a button.

"Come in."