I push through the heavy red door, heart pounding like a drum in my chest, the bass from the club’s main room fading behind me. The room is dim, lit by flickering candles and soft neon strips that cast shadows on the velvet couches and silk-draped walls. Ten people are already there—five men, five women—all masked, all naked or nearly so, bodies glistening with oil or sweat.
The air is thick with musk, jasmine, and the promise of sin. The door clicks locked behind me, and they turn as one, eyes hungry, smiles wicked.
I'm Aria, and tonight, I'm theirs.
No words. No names. Just hands reaching for me.
The first man—a tall, muscled god with tattoos snaking down his chest—grabs my waist and yanks me into the center. His c**k is already hard, thick, veined, pressing against my thigh through
