Rescue Me

Chapter 11. Convince Me.

Her voice barely rose above a whisper, yet it cut through Club Delco's sweltering air like a razor, stilling the restless buzz of forty eager men.

It was a husky, velvet command that curled low in my belly, sparking a raw, intense attraction that left me breathless.

Grace Lincoln loomed at the bed's edge, a velvet-draped altar bathed in harsh spotlight glare.

She was darkness incarnate - sleek black leather hugged her razor-sharp curves, hair pulled back tight, accentuating cheekbones cut like knives.

This wasn't a woman - it was a revolution declared.

Her stormy eyes scanned the room, and I felt their icy blaze like a branding iron searing my skin.

A nervous guy beside me dared to raise his hand, and Grace's lips curled into a low, mocking laugh - the kind that sends shivers down your spine.

"This isn't a classroom, honey," she purred. "Speak up."

The guy stuttered out his question: "H-how many people... are you choosing?"

Her response was ice-cold: "Ten."

The word hung heavy in the air, like a death sentence. My own lips parted in a silent swear - the odds were brutal.

Ten winners out of forty-plus desperate hopefuls crammed into this luxurious waiting room at 568 West Coast.

My gut – a gambler's instinct – screamed these odds were suicidal... especially since the prize was her.

A shockwave of raw ambition and lust rippled through the room. It wasn’t just a casual f**k she was offering. It was a throne. A competition. And a fire I didn’t know I had roared to life in my chest. I’ve never wanted to win anything so badly in my entire f*****g life.

Fuck, hold on, a sane corner of my mind warned. You don’t even know what she’s like in a scene. I was running on whispers, on the legends shared in hushed, reverent tones by men who’d experienced her power. For all I knew, she could be all posture and no substance.

But my gut, my blood, my very c**k told me that was a lie. There was a magnetism pouring off her, a gravitational pull so intense it felt like it could rip the soul right out of my body. She was a siren, and every man in this room was a sailor ready to smash his ship to pieces on her rocks for one taste of her song. I just prayed I wouldn’t drown.

“Any other questions?” Her eyes scanned the room, finding no takers. “Good. I’m coming around. If I see something I like, you’re in. And boys…” A cruel, sensual smile played on her lips. “I’m not just looking for the best c**k in the room. But if you think it’s your main selling point, by all means, let’s see the merchandise.”

Chaos erupted. Zippers hissed, belts unbuckled. Men scrambled to pull out their d***s, some starting to stroke themselves with a desperate, pathetic urgency. I felt a surge of contempt. Should I join them? I knew what I had. I was well-equipped, more than average, but something held me back. Call it ego, call it strategy. They were showing her a weapon. I planned to show her an arsenal.

She started on the far side of the room, moving with a panther’s fluid grace. She didn’t ask for names. She gave them, branding each chosen man with a label, a way of owning them before they even touched her. They were her lucky few, her new toys, and they lined up against the wall like disciples.

First was a blond kid with a lean frame. She smirked. “Golden Boy. Over there.”

Next, a Hispanic man, built like a brick shithouse. “Bruiser. You’re in.”

Then a tanned, over-muscled guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a bad action movie. “Action Hero. Don’t disappoint.”

It was clear she had no interest in their identities, only their potential.

A Korean guy with meticulously gelled hair and the sculpted torso of a gym rat got a dismissive once-over. “GQ. Fix your shirt. You’re in.”

Then two idiots in matching red shirts and bow ties. Seriously? “Did you two plan this tragic little number?” she asked, voice dripping with disdain. “Never mind. I don’t care. You’re both hot in a desperate sort of way. Get over there. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.” She didn’t even bother to assign which was which.

After them, an older man who was a dead ringer for a pro wrestler. “The Mountain. Welcome.” Then a giant of a man, at least six-five, with long, beaded twists in his hair. The irony in her voice was thick as she dubbed him, “Cupcake.” Finally, a Middle Eastern man covered in a kaleidoscope of ink. “Ink. Obviously.”

Nine men.

Her type wasn’t a look; it was an aura. Power. Presence. Men who looked like they could take control, even as they were about to cede it all to her.

The room grew deathly quiet. The air crackled. She had picked nine. There was only one spot left.

And then she turned. Her predatory gaze moved past the last few hopefuls, past the rows of exposed, wanting flesh, and landed squarely on me. She began to walk, her heels clicking a slow, deliberate death knell on the polished floor. Each step was a beat of my hammering heart. She didn’t look at anyone else. Just me.

She closed the distance, the scent of expensive whiskey and a dark, floral perfume flooding my senses, short-circuiting my brain. She stopped a breath away, so close I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her eyes, those devastating stormy seas, weren’t just looking at me; they were performing an autopsy, peeling back every layer of confidence and control I projected.

A ghost of a smile, sharp as a razor, touched her lips. Her voice was a bare whisper, for my ears only, a secret and a challenge.

“Nine down,” she murmured, her gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to my fully clothed form before rising to meet my eyes again. “One spot left. And you haven't shown me a single goddamn thing.”

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear.

“Convince me.”