Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
NaomiThe first time I see him, he's standing across the club like he owns the night, and something inside me just knows.
His eyes say danger. His stance says protector.
And the way he looks at me? It’s as if he already knows my every secret.
I came to The Sterling Rope for a paycheck, not a life-altering obsession.
But Wyatt Byrne isn’t just a temptation—he’s a thirst I’ll never quench.
Wyatt
She calls me boss. I call her Fever.
From the moment our eyes lock across the club, we both know there’s no going back.
I’m everything she shouldn’t want.
She’s everything I thought I could never have.
But when the world threatens to tear her away, I’ll fight like hell to hold on to her. Forever.
Welcome to Silver Spoon Falls, TX. The men here are known for having it all. Except there's a shortage of eligible ladies in town to share it with. These determined men won't let that slow them down
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
WYATT
Moving to a new town is supposed to be a clean break. New start, new job, new place to hang your hoodie. I pictured unloading the last box, surveying my kingdom of empty pizza boxes and IKEA hex keys feeling a sense of relief. That’s what I envisioned, anyway.
In reality, I’ve spent the last seventy-two hours living on takeout and grunting up and down the steps of my lemon-scented home with all my worldly possessions. Too bad, that only consists of seven duffel bags, a pile of books I’ve been planning to read, and a mattress with a dip right in the middle. After finishing up unloading my SUV, I was sore in places I didn’t know I had and smelled like the armpit of a boxer.
Yesterday, I spent the afternoon christening my new digs with a much-needed nap instead of digging out my work clothes. So now, I’m driving my blacked-out Tahoe into downtown Silver Spoon Falls wearing a wrinkled shirt and black pants that should’ve been thrown away years ago.
The Sterling Rope is not the eyesore you’d expect from a sex club. There’s no sign. No red neon lips, no toppled columns of Greco-Roman decadence, not even a single handcuff decal. Just a cube of dark brick wedged between an artisanal doughnut place and a bank right in the middle of the downtown that looks like it stepped right out of a nineteen fifties Christmas movie. From the outside, The Sterling Rope looks like a miniaturized federal courthouse, except with better landscaping.
I park behind the building and scan the quiet alley. The only people in sight are a woman walking a rat-sized dog and the lone figure waiting outside the club’s unmarked steel door.
Roman Sterling’s commanding presence is unmistakable. Even from half a block away, I can tell his jet black, three-piece suit with lapels sharp enough to split hair is custom.
His hair is a sophisticated salt-and-pepper color, reminiscent of luxury whiskey advertisements, probably styled by an expensive $200 blow-dry. Damn, running a BDSM empire must be lucrative. Of course, being born with a silver spoon firmly planted between his lips didn’t hurt, either.
I hop out of my SUV and my spine pops like bubble wrap. Roman clocks me, face splitting into a wide, white smile. It’s all jawline and old-world charm, but the handshake he offers could probably bend a horseshoe.
“Wyatt. You look like you slept in those clothes every night for the last three weeks,” his eyes crinkle up at the corners as he laughs.
I give his hand a single, measured squeeze giving his shit right back to him. “Who the fuck wears a three-piece in July?”
He shakes his head, clapping me on the shoulder. “I have important meetings all day long or I’d be wearing jeans and a polo shirt.”
He steps back, scanning my battered jeans and security-issue boots with a smirk. “Didn’t guarding one of the most popular bands in the world pay well?”
“My work uniform is unfortunately packed away in some box I haven’t come across yet.”
He snorts. “Try to find it before you start tomorrow night.”
“I will.” If you squint hard enough, Roman is technically my cousin, but our family tree’s been pruned for maximum plausible deniability and I’m from the side no one really claims. The Sterlings have always had a fondness for money, power, and the kind of taboos that can’t be scrubbed with a confessional. I, on the other hand, have a fondness for getting paid on time and not getting stabbed by groupies.
Roman pivots toward the building. “You ready to look around?”
“Lead the way.” I follow him to the door.
He swipes a card, and the heavy black steel door clicks open. I follow him into a vestibule tiled in black marble, the air instantly twenty degrees cooler and perfumed with something expensive. Beyond the second set of doors, the club’s lobby stretches out in red velvet and shadow, accented by matte black steel and clusters of pendant lighting that could double as medieval torture devices. The décor is half Parisian supper club, half Satan’s man cave. It’s impressive, even if my brain is already replaying the time I had to break up a knife fight in the backstage toilet of the Met.
Roman waits for me to take it in, hands folded behind his back like a magician about to pull a live rabbit from his ass. “So, what do you think?”
I run a palm over the curve of a leather sofa. “It’s...cleaner than I expected. No sticky floors.” I’m not really sure what I expected but this isn’t it.
“That’s our motto. Discretion, hygiene, and luxury above all. Nobody wants to catch hepatitis from a bondage bench.”
He leads me across the lobby, nodding at a receptionist who’s dressed a little dowdy for a sex club. Roman gives a quick introduction, and she smiles as he leads me away.