Sexy as Hell Box Set by Harlem Dae Page B

point out that leaving my car outside number six Eden Street was not an option. Zara had read me like a book, when for me she was like reading Japanese—backwards.
    “That’s great, we’ll meet you out the front in twenty. And make sure you’re ready for tonight’s show, won’t you.” She snapped her mobile shut then dropped it into the gaping mouth of her bag.
    “You really think I’m going to hand the keys of a hundred-and-twenty-thousand-pound car over to someone I don’t know?” I laughed, but not with humour.
    “Yes.”
    “Then you thought wrong.” I shook my head.
    “No I didn’t.” She flipped down the sun visor, slid the little cover back from the mirror and pursed her lips at her reflection.
    “This time, Zara, you’re asking too much.” The lights changed and I pulled away, still heading for Soho. I split my concentration between her and the road.
    She drew out a lipstick, slicking vivid red over her pout. Pressed her lips together and then checked her teeth.
    “Seriously, too much,” I said again, when she appeared not to have heard me.
    “Victor, baby.” She snapped the visor back up and tucked the lipstick away. “I haven’t even started asking things of you yet. And when I do, I promise you’ll say yes, every single fucking time.”

Chapter Seven
     
    I didn’t feel entirely comfortable handing my precious Porsche keys over to Carlos. A big brute of a man, Spanish if I was correct in placing his accent. But what choice did I have? I had to go with Zara and watch her show.
    Luckily Zara seemed to have a bond with Carlos, and I could only hope, because he seemed enraptured by her, he’d look after my car.
    If all else failed, the damn thing was insured. It would just be difficult to explain the unusual venue for the valet parking.
    Inside the club, I shifted my bum on the same bucket seat I’d sat in the night before. The one Zara had given me my first blowjob in. The wide window to the showroom was in blackness, and alone in the small room, all I could hear was the sound of my breathing and the friction of the skin on my palms as I rubbed my hands together.
    My mind was in overdrive. She’d given nothing away about the theme of her show on the way here, other than she wouldn’t be whipping herself into a frenzy. But the look the red-haired girl at reception had given me made me nervous. More nervous than last night. She’d studied me like I was prey—prey who’d been hunted, captured and was about to be devoured.
    Suddenly the curtains opened and the lights in the room came on. As opposed to the stark whiteness of the flagellating show, now the lighting was a subdued scarlet. Dark shadows stretched over the floor and against the wall opposite.
    My attention, however, didn’t linger on the aesthetics of the hues, because standing in the middle of the room, wearing black leather hot-pants, a blood-red corset and the same thigh-length boots she’d travelled to work in, was Zara.
    Her ponytail swung as she turned to face me. She raised her left hand, pressed a kiss to her palm and blew it my way.
    Fuck, my cock was bloating by the second. I couldn’t deny she was bloody gorgeous. Like no woman I’d seen before, not least because she had the sole of her right foot pressed onto a man’s back. The heel was creating quite a dent in his flesh, visible even from where I sat. It must be painful.
    He was on the floor, on hands and knees, head hanging down, black hood over his face. He was naked, and I could see that his cock was turgid and straining towards his belly.
    The guy was big—his muscles had that over-worked, pumped quality to them—and his olive-skinned back was thick and wide. I noticed a trail of dark hairs in the cleft of his arse. The same coating covered his thighs, calves and forearms.
    It was then I spotted what Zara had in her other hand. A whip. But not a long, cowboy-style one, it was short and had several strands, more like a flogger, I supposed. Damn, she’d