Page 26 of The Pleasure Zone

And then he came, hard, causing everything around him to blur.

Nairobia wasn’t his. But she was his for the night. All his. And he wanted to savor every wet stroke of her for as long as he could. She’d given him her body, and limitless access to her hot, wet, sweet clutch.

Josiah didn’t pull out. He remained buried inside her, slowing moving his hips, enjoying the warmth of her. He knew there were plenty of men who’d kill to be inside her right now. She’d partied all night. And, yet, had returned to her suite…to him.

That had to mean something. Right?

Her cunt clutched his cock, causing his orgasm to rip through his body, flooding his chest with warmth.

That was all the answer he needed.

ELEVEN

Back in New York, Nairobia found herself up to her sultry eyeballs in membership applications and invoices. Since opening night, over a month ago, the club’s membership had already increased by another two hundred new members. And on her desk there were still another…three hundred and seventy-two applicants from across the world—including that of a Middle Eastern prince—vying for membership in The Pleasure Zone.

Nairobia had known from the beginning that there was a market for a club such as hers. Oh, sure there were other sex clubs in the New York area, but none compared to hers. Besides the club’s “Anything Goes Behind These Doors” policy, Nairobia catered specifically to the rich and freaky. No others.

Was it discriminatory? Perhaps. But she didn’t give a damn. Have good coin and you could have whatever your freaky heart desired. You could experience sweet bliss and the underworld of taboo sex all under one tantalizing roof, until daybreak.

Nairobia glanced at the time, and smiled. It was almost time for the doors of her club to open. She was pleased of her club’s overnight success. But, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that it was overwhelming. Running a club of this magnitude was nothing like hosting her private sex parties around the world.

It required dedication and real commitment, and hard work. A little more than she’d bargained for. Sadly, Nairobia was beginning to think she wouldn’t be able to keep up with managing the day-to-day demands. The Pleasure Zone was not to become her life, only a part of it. The last thing she wanted was to be living and breathing to keep a club open. No, no. Her club would be a success. But she would not marry herself to it for that to happen. If she wanted a husband, she’d have one. No, no. She wanted excitement. She wanted pleasure. And she enjoyed seeing men and women receiving it here.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a bit overwhelmed.

The club’s doors were already opened three nights a week—Friday, Saturday and Sunday, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. That meant three sumptuous nights of decadence. Nairobia saw no need to extend sin beyond that. But the club’s members thought otherwise. Requests for another night were coming in heavily. Now Nairobia was at her desk, contemplating adding another night, which meant being chained to her club more than what she’d hoped for. She had books to write. Parties to host. And two other businesses to run.

She was the face and body of pleasure. She was a gypsy soul. Born for living. And fucking. Not toiling over paperwork. Yet, here she sat.

Nairobia took another deep breath. Ik zal niet versloeg. No, she would not be defeated. At some point, she knew she’d need someone to manage her club’s responsibilities. Someone almost as freaky as her, someone she could trust. Someone educated, and business savvy.

But who?

Nairobia wasn’t the most trusting. And she definitely wasn’t about to let anyone come up in here and tear her good name down, or ruin her club’s success. No, no. She knew all too well about silent haters. The ones who wished you well to your face, but then slithered behind your back to try to do you in.

She would have none of that around her.

No negativity.

No hating.

No jealousy.

No one trying to sabotage her.

So she’d have to ride it out until she was able to come up with a better solution.

Her cell rang, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, before answering. “Pasha, my darling,” she purred. “You’ve received my text, no?” She’d sent her a text late last night indicating she was in need of a few good men to protect and serve her.

Pasha was her hairstylist back in California, whom she had fallen in love with the moment she’d stepped foot i

nto her posh Beverly Hills salon over a year ago. Since then, Nairobia allowed no one else to lay fingers through her hair, except for Pasha.

“Yes. I got your text. And I think I have someone for you.”

“And how well do you know him, my darling?”

“We’re close,” Pasha said in an almost cryptic tone. She paused, then added, “I trust him with my life.”