Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 31081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31081 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 155(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
For one, is she attractive?
It’s a shitty thing to think, but I’m not sure I could do this type of role-play with just anyone. And since this isn’t necessarily the safest or most ethical thing my club could be associated with, it needs to be handled by me. I need to be the one in this roleplaying scenario with her.
If. If. If. If.
If she’s my type. If she’s mature. If she’s sane. If she’s clean.
God, so many fucking ifs.
Someone walks through the door, and I zero in on the woman. Completely my type. Tall, blonde, fucking hot with huge tits. I’m about to wave her over to me when she smiles at a man. He pulls her in for a hug and they kiss.
Damn.
That would be too easy.
A couple of guys walk in, and I notice Bruce, one of my bouncers, shaking his head at a woman. I narrow my eyes. A curtain of light brown hair hides her face as she fumbles around in her purse. Her body tenses when she senses eyes on her. She snaps her head in my direction. For a brief moment, panic lights up her green eyes that seem to glow. Bruce says something to her, impatience in his demeanor, and her neck blazes bright red. She’s back to digging around in her purse.
He thinks she looks young.
And she does, considering most women who come through here have makeup caked on. This woman may not have makeup on, but I saw a glint in her eyes that said she’s seen things. Hard things. Awful things. Terrifying things. This isn’t the sort of place that evokes cold, hard panic. Embarrassment perhaps. Not panic. But in one glance, I saw it. The fear.
She thrusts her ID at him, and he inspects it for a long moment. I watch her full lips move as she says something to him. Then, they both look my way, and he points to me.
Fuck.
Nope.
If this is Violent Q, the answer is already no.
Not for what she wants. This type of role-play requires mental strength, not to mention physical as well. I’m sure I can offer her a mixture of some submissive or humiliation role-play, but what she wants, I cannot do.
As she pushes through the crowd, her hesitation melts away, the brief, fearful glimpse shed at the door. She lifts her chin, hardens her stare, and presses her lips together as she squeezes through people. Because of her plainness, she’s barely noticed or acknowledged.
I see her, though.
Not just the tougher person she’s projecting, but the one she’s trying to hide. It’s clear she’s both, whether she wants to admit that or not.
She stops right in front of me, her green eyes glimmering with an inner fire. It lights up her whole face. Her lips part as she readies herself to speak. Gently, I lift my hand with a slow, steady movement and brush my thumb across her bottom lip. She blinks in surprise at my touch.
“Not here,” I say, my voice gruff. “Come to my office.”
Her brow furrows, but she nods. I turn on my heel and make my way out of the main club area into the hallway that will take us to my office. Her presence can be felt behind me, which I find unusual. I’m not sure if it’s her requests, or her, but something has the hairs on the back of my neck alive with awareness. She gives off the illusion of heat, and I feel it burning hot against my back. The most surprising of all is the way my dick twitches with interest. At the very least, we could have fun together, even if I can’t give her what she wants.
Not my type…
My dick doesn’t agree.
I cast a glance over my shoulder to make sure she’s still following me. Plain fucking Jane. Even her outfit screams matronly schoolmarm. Long brown skirt, brown boots, and an oversized cream sweater that hides her shape. She could have tits, but it’s hard to tell in the shitshow she’s wearing. I give her a forced smile before turning back around.
“I’m Joshua,” I tell her when we make it to my office door. “Joshua Tuck. Pleased to meet you…”
“Violent Q,” she utters, darting her eyes away from mine.
I wait for a beat. When she doesn’t elaborate, I let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t think I can help.”
This gets her attention. All nervousness and uncertainty bleeds away as anger sets in, morphing her plain features into fiery ones.
“Why not?” she demands, her throat burning red again.
Red’s a good color on her.
“Because, in order for us to even consider your request, there needs to be trust. If you can’t even trust me with your name, why are we here?”
“Quinn.”
I lift a brow.
“Quinn Washington.”
“How old are you, Violent Quinn?”
Her nostrils flare. “Twenty-seven.”
I hold her stare for another moment before punching in the code to my office and pushing into the room. She follows me inside, eyeing the office warily.