Page 19 of Deep Within Me
She’d smell of musk, her wanton need as great as his own.
He’d bring her within a breath of orgasm, noting how her body tensed. Only then would he stop and whip her for what she’d tried to do to him tonight, watching her ass grow pink beneath each—
The office door cracked open, interrupting Carreon’s thoughts. Pounding music from the business end of the club spilled into this space. Something crude and rough. Possibly Jay-Z.
Ernez moved inside with the grace of a panther, despite his size. He was six-one, the same as Carreon. Dressed in solid black—a silky shirt and well-tailored pants—he appeared both elegant and dangerous. His beefy shoulders, thick neck, and arms revealed how much he liked to work out, no different from Carreon’s other men. Ernez wore his dark hair cropped very short, just shy of a crew cut. His face was clean-shaven, his complexion a deep brown from his ancestry and afternoons spent in the sun.
He stepped to the side to allow a young woman entry into the office.
Carreon knew she was just barely twenty-one. He’d read her employment application while Ernez went to fetch her. As one of the club’s strippers, she wore little on stage and nothing now except for spike-heel, thigh-high boots. They laced up the front and appeared to be made of black suede.
Above the material, her legs were sleek, her cunt smooth, her feminine curls waxed off to give the patrons a full view of her sex. Idly, Carreon regarded her slit, and then her youthful breasts. Firm, lush, real—according to her application—which Carreon didn’t doubt. Those perfect globes enticed a man to cup them in his palms, squeeze them to feel their heat and suppleness. Implants could never provide what nature offered so easily.
This woman had received many physical gifts.
Her nipples were the color of damp earth, the areolas smooth. Clearly, the cold air pouring from the ceiling vents hadn’t chilled her…nor was she aroused in the least. For her nightly performances, she’d rubbed some kind of cosmetic on her nipples and mound that caused her skin to sparkle faintly in the light.
Her warm complexion proved she shared his clan’s blood. Her dark-green eyes were a surprise, as lovely as her sensuous features and glossy hair. It was so black, blue highlights shone in it. One thick tress rested on her shoulder. The rest of her mane hung halfway down her back.
Tall, five-eight without her heels, she seemed decidedly unimpressed with the surroundings or with him.
Carreon wondered if she knew who he was and figured Ernez had probably told her. Odd that she didn’t seem cowed or even curious as to why she was here, what he might want from her. Rather than irritating him, her indifference intrigued Carreon. He dropped the ice cube into his glass.
“Close the door,” he ordered Ernez.
Not bothering to watch, she lit the cigarette she held then took a protracted drag off it.
She’d painted her long nails black. To match her hair? The boots? Carreon didn’t know. He liked the look.
She slipped her lighter into the top of her left boot, blew out the smoke, and watched those grayish plumes rise to the ceiling.
“You know that’s not allowed in here,” Ernez said, scolding her as he would an annoyingly stupid child.
He grabbed a plate from his desk. Crumbs from his snack dotted it. He extended the item, clearly wanting her to use it as a makeshift ashtray.
She regarded her cigarette then him.
“Put it out,” he ordered, his contempt deliberately obvious to prove she was nothing more than a dumb stripper. He called the shots in this place and she would do as he expected, especially in front of his boss. It was Carreon who didn’t allow cigarettes in the office. He didn’t want to smell the stench the times he did come around. If it had been up to Ernez, he would have joined her, given that he was also a smoker. “Now.”
Dutifully, she stubbed out her smoke. Not on the plate, though—at the base of Ernez’s thumb.
He dropped the plate and jerked back his hand. “Son of a fucking bitch. You goddamn stupid—”
“No one tells me what to do,” she interrupted, serene as could be. However, there was a slight edge to her words, as though she wanted him to know no one embarrassed or humiliated her, especially to make themselves look better. “You could have asked nice. You should have.”
His face turned a deeper red, his features contorted with rage. He raised his hand to strike her. To prove he still ran the show?
Didn’t matter. Her response was as quick. In one surprisingly graceful move, she pulled something from the top ofher right boot. There was a whoosh and then a click as a blade locked into place.
“You don’t want to do that,” she warned him.
He still swung his arm—seemingly unable to stop what he intended in spite of her weapon, as if he needed to prove his manhood.
As though to dispute it, she easily stepped out of his reach. “That was a mistake.”
Before he could draw his hand back, she made a slashing movement with her weapon. The switchblade flashed, its metal edge reflecting the light…slicing his palm. Not too deep but not all that shallow either.
He gasped then growled.