Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
Probably not the smartest move-texting while driving-but what can I say? Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can already picture Sloane giving me shit for it. The way her eyes would narrow. The way her mouth would pull into that sharp little frown she thinks is intimidating.
She just seems like the type to give a full ten-minute lecture about texting while driving. Probably cite some damn statistics too, waving her hands around like she’s teaching a safety course.
And the crazy part?
I don’t think I’d even mind.
Not from her.
Normally, clingy, nosy, overly inquisitive types make my skin itch.
But maybe she doesn’t count.
Maybe she could scream at me in the middle of my own club, fists flying, accusations sharp enough to draw blood-and I’d still want to fuck her against the nearest wall. Which, in any other case, would result in a dislocated joint for the other person.
I shake my head, easing the car into a quieter part of the city-the old industrial stretch where all the windows are boarded up except for the ones that aren’t really windows at all.
I don’t often repeat sex with the same woman.
Once is usually enough.
Sometimes twice, if the mood is good and the chemistry decent.
But here I am still getting hard at the memory of her.
Still craving the feel of her nails dragging down my back, the way she gasps my name like she’s bleeding it out of her soul.
And part of me-the darker part, the reckless part-wants to kidnap her.
Wants to throw her over my shoulder, toss her into my bed, and keep her there until she forgets what fresh air even tastes like.
But bringing her deeper into my world?
Dragging her into the shit I live and breathe?
Yeah.
That might be a little too soon.
Even for me.
My club isn’t far now.
Tucked away in the bones of a quiet neighborhood, designed to look like a boring, slightly upscale office building from the outside. The Real Business
If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was a law firm or a financial agency.
Inside, though-
That’s where the real business happens.
My Bunny
I pull into a discreet driveway tucked between two abandoned buildings and kill the engine.
Inside, I nod once at the receptionist-part security, part front-desk illusion-and head for the private elevator at the back.
Swipe my black access card across the scanner.
The elevator hums to life and carries me down.
The second the doors slide open, the air changes.
Denser. Warmer.
The basement is packed, even in the middle of a weekday.
People lean against dark wood-paneled walls, sipping drinks that cost more than most people’s rent.
Some wear masks. Others don’t bother.
Laughter spills from private rooms-throaty, dark laughter punctuated by the occasional sharp slap of skin against skin.
There’s a constant low thrum of music, more vibration than sound, designed to stir the blood without distracting from the real show.
I move through it without blinking.
A man is on his knees in a glass room to the right, hands cuffed behind his back, while a woman in leather heels circles him like prey.
Another door opens briefly across the hall, revealing two figures locked together, shadows devouring each other hungrily.
This place isn’t for the faint of heart.
It’s not for tourists.
It’s for the ones who understand hunger and shame and pleasure as two sides of the same sharp blade.
And it’s mine.
I step out, boots heavy on the floor, heading toward the second corridor where my private office waits.
Sage, one of the club’s managers, intercepts me halfway there.
Good-looking, early thirties, olive skin, a jawline that belongs on a billboard.
He’s been with me since the beginning.
Before the club had walls.
Before it even had a name.
To me, he’s not just staff.
He’s family.
One of the few I have left.
“Boss,” he says, falling into step beside me. “We had a situation.”
I don’t break stride. “I assume you’ve handled it.”
“We patched it for now. Some asshole thought he could bring a knife in and slice up a submissive.”
I grunt. Typical. I can already picture him at his doorstep with a few bruises as a souvenir. Okay, maybe not a few.
We reach my office.
I swipe my card again, the heavy door unlocking with a soft click.
The moment the door closes behind us, I toss my keys onto the massive steel desk and sink into the leather chair.
Sage doesn’t leave.
He lingers.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s building up to something.
I glance up. “What?”
He hesitates, then says, “Are you still single?”
“What?”
Successfully unlocked!
“Look, you know I’m married, right? My missus thinks I’m an artist.”