Semua Bab Heels & Handcuffs - Club Gold Trilogy: Bab 41 - Bab 50

Angela. The bass from the club's sound system thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through my heels and into my bones. I didn't need to see Club Gold to know every inch of it—the layout was an exact copy of the London branch which was burned into my memory from years of navigating those halls. Twenty-one years of blindness had taught me to read the world in ways sighted people never would. My cane swept across the polished marble floor as I made my way toward the VIP lounge, counting steps. Thirty-two from the elevator. Turn left at the Baccarat crystal sculpture—I could hear the faint whistle of air moving around its intricate edges. Another fifteen steps to the double doors. "Miss Greyson." Marcus, the security guard, greeted me. His cologne was too strong, as always. Bergamot and something woody that made my nose itch. "Marcus. Busy night?" "When isn't it?" His voice held a smile. "Your father's in his office. Your mother's handling a situation with a client in the Red Roo

Angela. Three days. It had been three days since Damien Black walked into Club Gold and turned my carefully ordered world upside down. Three days of obsessive thoughts. Of lying awake at night, my body humming with a need I didn't fully understand. Of touching myself in the darkness and imagining his hands instead of mine. I was going insane. "Angel, you're not paying attention." Professor Chen's voice cut through my mental fog. I jerked back to the present, my hands still on the clay sculpture I was supposed to be shaping. "Sorry, Professor. I was... thinking through the composition." "You were thinking about a man," she said bluntly. "I can tell. You've been distracted all week. The work is suffering." Heat flooded my cheeks. Was I that obvious? "I'm fine. Just stressed about the exhibition." "Hmm." Professor Chen didn't sound convinced, but she moved on to help another student. I forced myself to concentrate on the clay. This piece was supposed to be part of my senior e

Angela. My heart hammered as Damien led me through the club. I could feel eyes on us—staff, patrons, people who knew who my father was and would definitely report this back to him. I didn't care. For once in my carefully controlled life, I was doing something reckless. Something dangerous. Something I wanted without asking permission first. The door clicked shut behind us. I heard the lock engage. We were alone. "Second thoughts?" Damien's voice came from somewhere to my left. "No." My voice was steadier than I expected. "Are you?" "I should have a hundred second thoughts." He moved closer. I could feel his heat. "This is a mistake. Your father will kill me. And you... you have no idea what you're getting into." "So teach me." Silence stretched between us. Then his hand cupped my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "If we do this," he said quietly, "we do it my way. My rules. You submit to me completely, or we walk out of here right now." Submit. The word sent a shiver thro

Angela. My mother cornered me at Club Gold two days later. I was in one of the private studios, working on a sculpture that had been commissioned for the club's main floor. My hands moved over the clay, shaping and refining by touch alone. "Angela Katherine Greyson." I froze. Full name. Never good. "Hi, Mom." "Don't 'hi Mom' me." She closed the door. "You're sleeping with Damien Black." "I'm dating Damien Black. The sleeping together part is... recent." "He's sixteen years older than you." "I'm aware." "He's dangerous." "I'm also aware." "And you're in a BDSM relationship with him." Her voice softened slightly. "Baby, do you understand what that means?" I set down my sculpting tools. "Mom, I grew up in this club. You and Dad never hid the lifestyle from me. I know exactly what it means." "Knowing about it and living it are two very different things." "Then teach me." I turned toward her voice. "You're a Domme. You've been in this world for decades. Help me understand in

Angela. Three weeks until my exhibition, and I couldn't concentrate on anything except the man currently trailing me through the university sculpture studio. "You know, most bodyguards try to be subtle," I said without turning around. Damien's low chuckle made warmth pool in my belly. "I'm not most bodyguards." "No, you're my boyfriend who's also being paid to protect me. Conflict of interest much?" "I'd protect you whether your father paid me or not." His hands settled on my waist. "How's the piece coming?" I turned in his arms, my clay-covered hands held carefully away from his expensive suit. "It's frustrating. I can feel what I want it to be, but I can't seem to translate that into the clay." "Tell me what you see in your mind." I leaned into him, letting his solid presence ground me. "Movement. Grace. The way a body flows through space. I want people to touch it and understand what it feels like to move without sight. To experience the world through texture and shape inst