Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 28 So You’d Rather Be A Whore?

Chapter 28: 28 So You’d Rather Be A Whore?

Lara POV

"Yes," I said, biting my lip.

"When I fucked you on my desk...when you moaned and came and so sweetly thanked me for breeding you..." Emmanuel drawled sceptically, "...that was you faking it?"

"...Yes."

"And when you came all over my face at the breakfast table, that was you faking it too?" he continued.

My face was so red that I was glad for the darkness in the car.

And for the divider between the driver’s seat and the back of the limo, so no one else could hear the filthy words that Emmanuel was saying.

How does he say things like that without a hint of shame, without even a change in his voice?!

"What can I say?" I muttered, crossing my arms and legs and trying to match the Devil for nonchalance. "I’m very good at my job."

Emmanuel shook his head, clearly not believing a word I was saying. But if it bothered him, it didn’t show at all on his face, keeping that frustratingly stoic expression.

"Such lies, Lara," he said silkily, "I think you will regret it."

He pulled away and sat back in his seat, leaving me flushed and unsettled, wondering what exactly he had planned.

------

Fifteen minutes later, the limousine pulled up in front of a discreet, upscale building. A single bouncer stood sentinel at the entrance. Elegant gold lettering curved across the doorway:

Elysium.

When the valet opened the car door, a rush of cool night air swept in.

I didn’t move.

"What is this?" I said, guarded.

Emmanuel leaned forward slightly, the movement bringing him closer into my space. His gaze locked onto mine, dark and challenging.

"You said you would rather work for me, no?" His tone was deceptively mild, but I caught the danger simmering beneath it. "That you would rather be a whore than be mine?"

"Yes," I said tightly.

A sharp-edged, shark-like smile spread across Emmanuel’s lips.

"I can offer you that opportunity. I can even offer you a... promotion." He gestured unhurriedly towards the entryway of the club. "This is the best club I own."

He lifted one dark eyebrow in clear challenge. The air between us crackled. I could feel the push and pull—the way he wanted me to flinch, to crawl back into the safety of being his alone.

Did he think I would scare so easily? That I would break and beg him to keep me in his gilded cage?

"Would you like to take a look inside?"

I arched my brow right back, matching his intensity with every ounce of defiance I possessed.

"Bring it on," I said.

I stepped out of the limousine into the cool night. It was an unfamiliar, upscale area, the roads wide and lined with trees. A fancy restaurant with an outdoor terrace was in the distance.

Fresh air.

No glass. No cage.

For a moment I longed to run for it.

The next moment, Emmanuel was a shadow at my back, raising a line of heat between my shoulder blades.

I squared my shoulders and stepped through the doorway into the darkness of the club.

Just beyond the entryway stood a hostess. She smiled as I came in.

"Welcome to Elysium. Color?"

"Color?" I repeated, confused.

What the hell did that mean?

The hostess smiled politely and presented a sleek black tray lined with velvet.

Arranged neatly on it were leather wrist cuffs in an array of colors: pristine white, soft blush pink, bold crimson, deep black, and a few others I barely registered.

Before I could process them, a shadow fell across the tray.

Emmanuel reached past me without hesitation. His fingers brushed my skin as he selected a white cuff and snapped it securely around my right wrist.

"White means you are new," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, "and not to be touched. Come along."

White as in, pure as the driven snow?

With one possessive hand resting on the small of my waist, fingers pressing lightly through the thin fabric of my dress, Emmanuel guided me through the lobby and through a heavy door.

I eyed the tray of wrist cuffs, wondering what the other colors meant.

Emmanuel ought to have a black band in that case, as black as his heart.

Soon, my attention was drawn away as we ventured deeper into the club.

The first thing that I noticed was the sounds.

Low, sensual music pulsed through the air—quiet enough to allow conversation, but with a deep, throbbing bass that vibrated through the floors, up my legs, and into my core like adrenaline in sound wave form. Layered over it were breathy feminine moans and sighs, obscene and unashamed, drifting like smoke through the dim corridors.

We turned a corner, and the space opened up into a lavish, dimly lit hall that practically breathed sex and decadence. Rich velvet drapes, dark wood, and golden lighting created an atmosphere of forbidden luxury.

On the raised central stage, a woman performed under a spotlight. She wore an elaborate white-feathered mask that covered the upper half of her face, delicate wings arching behind her shoulders, and a feathered costume so skimpy it only teased rather than concealed.

As she sang in a sultry, breaking voice, she slowly spread her legs wider and impaled herself on the thick pole rising from the stage.

The wet, rhythmic sounds of her fucking herself mingled with the music, her hips rolling with practiced, shameless grace. Every moan that spilled from her lips sounded raw and real.

Around the room, several tables of well-dressed men watched. Some stared intently at the performer, drinks in hand.

Others were far more occupied—hands disappearing beneath tables, lips on necks, quiet commands given to the beautiful waitstaff.

One waitress bent over to take an order, her short apron riding up to reveal the smooth, bare curve of her ass. Her customer casually reached out and squeezed a generous handful, kneading her flesh as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She didn’t even flinch—just smiled and scribbled down his request.

My mouth dropped open.

This was nothing like The Red Door.

The Red Door had been cheap, desperate, and grim. This place was pure, refined filth—high-end, elegant, and dripping with money and lust. The sheer level of open debauchery made my cheeks burn hot and sent an unwelcome, traitorous tingle racing between my thighs.

"This is the Salon," Emmanuel said into my ear. "Let’s get a table, shall we?"

The moment we sat down, a stunning waitress appeared. Her eyes flicked over me with open curiosity and a hint of envy before she gracefully dropped to her knees at Emmanuel’s feet.