The Sinner's Club [18+] Complete

chapter one.

Beware: This is a DARK romance. You've been warned.

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POUNDING MUSIC fills the dimly-lit, hazy club. Everything is tinged in hues of blue; the strobe lighting flashes and plunges everyone in color followed by complete darkness. The leather booths are navy, the walls a reflective cobalt. They almost look as though they could be a one-way mirror. I wonder who is watching from the other side.

At first, it is difficult to force my feet to move forward, to plunge into this pit of depravity. But I push onward, taking note of the groups of people surrounding me.

On a table, a woman wearing a black mask is bound, with a vibrator held between her legs as she cries out.

Sitting in a booth are three men and at their feet is a woman on her knees, sucking one of their cocks, jerking off the other, then switching it around.

Another woman is bent over the bar, being fucked from behind viciously, her hair stroked back from her face by the bartender.

Thick tendrils of silk hang from the ceiling and naked aerialists contort their bodies, some painted in shimmering gold.

Everywhere I look, acts of sexual gratification are playing out. Over the music, the sounds of pleasured cries and groans and wet slapping of skin echoes in my ears.

A month ago, I would have sworn black and blue that I would never set foot in a place like this. Now, I have been left with no choice.

I keep my head low, trying to hunch in on myself and disappear into the shadows. But unfortunately, I don't go unnoticed for long.

"You look like you need a drink," a middle aged man grins predatorily at me, stepping away from the bar and in my direction.

I quickly shake my head. "No, I'm good."

"Come on. My treat. What do you like?" He insists.

I hurry past him, snatching my arm close to my side when he tries to reach for me.

Luckily, I lose him in a moment of darkness when the lights dim.

Unluckily, in my rush I run straight into a hard chest and stumble back.

"I'm sorry," I gasp out automatically. My eyes rise up the black button down shirt, the broad shoulders and meet icy blue eyes that appraise me with intense scrutiny.

It's clear this man is security; an earpiece runs down his neck. His inky black hair is cropped short and tattoos peek out from beneath the collar of his dress shirt.

"How old are you?" he demands, everything about him intimidating. His voice is harsh, frigid and unwelcoming.

"I'm–I'm twenty-two," I tell him. "I was carded at the door."

"Give me your ID," he instructs, holding out his hand expectantly, like he doesn't believe I'm telling the truth.

My hand shakes as I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and slide out my ID card.

Beside me, a woman yanks a man along on a leash.

The security guard appraises my ID for a long moment, his eyes flicking between my face and the picture.

"What's the problem?" I question. It's not like it's fake.

His cutting jawline tightens, ticking in irritation. "The problem," he bites out, "is you don't belong here."

I snatch the card back from him and stuff it into my pocket again. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His eyes sweep down my figure pointedly.