She’d stationed herself at a table at the front of the club, dead center, with a view to the entire area.
The position was out there, visible, but also secluded. The tables were not the scene.
The dancefloor was the scene.
And the rooms beyond the heavy curtains over the two doors wedged between dancefloor and bar on either side at the back of the club were the scene.
But Sixx wasn’t there for the scene.
She turned her attention to the length of elevated platform to her left, all the way down at the far end.
It was in shadows, as she was, but frequently lit with the flashing club lights that strobed the floor.
Pete Beardsley sat there, lounged back like he was the king of all he surveyed, a sub on her knees between his feet, her body twisted and her head not visible in a way that Sixx had a good idea how her mouth was engaged.
But his relatively decent-looking face did not register ecstasy or even pleasure, and this both enraged and sickened Sixx.
His sub was holding his balls, or his cock, in her mouth. If the latter, probably instructed to keep it hard, nothing else.
That was something Stellan would require of her.
And this was what enraged Sixx.
Because the woman at his feet was more than likely not there because she trusted her Dom with her heart or simply her kink.
But because her Dom had her fix, and it wasn’t a sexual one, and she needed it.
That was not the life.
Submissiveness was not subjugation.
And that perversion of Sixx’s way of life right there on display instead of being spoken of as a possibility made it hard for Sixx to keep her seat rather than make her way on her heels across the platform and show that asshole how it felt to be sexually coerced in a way you very much did not like.
On this thought, a trio of bodies strolled across the front of Sixx’s table.
Two hulking warlords trailed by a pretty pixie wearing a short skirt, a laced, lime-green corset and matching gossamer wings.
Sixx caught the movement of the pixie’s hand.
Even if she hadn’t, the woman was one of Sixx’s recruits. Her name was Molly, and those two warlords were her Doms. They all lived together and apparently learned very well how to share seeing as they did it in the scene and in life.
As Sixx watched them go, she made a mental note to discuss scholarships to the gladiator pit with Stellan.
Because both those dudes would rock it, and Sixx didn’t know the cost of the buy-in, but if it was hefty, she could tell by the decent but not luxury car Molly had, not to mention the streetwear, shoes and handbag she’d sported when Sixx had met with her about the Bolt job, that they probably were not rolling in it.
She also made a mental note to request Stellan do a night of slumming when she knew Molly and her warlords were at each other. Stellan was absolutely not into roleplay or costumes, and neither was Sixx, but she had a feeling he’d find that trio at the very least interesting, and she herself wanted to see how that all worked out in play.
She looked down at the table to see a square of white against the black tabletop.
A note.
She picked it up, opened it, and read the words, Station 7—back left—paid play—wait for an escort.
She folded it, tucked it in her cleavage, and studied the dancefloor, ignoring a preening male sub who was shaking his ass her way.
Seriously, she had to bring Stellan here and give these folks the news that Mistress Sixx was out of commission.
Another time.
She turned her head and saw pixie and her warlords were cozied up at a table three tables down, both men with backs to the wall, Molly with her ass in one of their laps, his arm around her, her forehead tucked into the side of his neck, her legs thrown over the lap of her other guy, but akimbo.
Those wings were going to get crushed.
The other guy had his hands full. One up his pixie’s short, lime-green skirt, the other she couldn’t see, but she could tell by its movements he was fisting his boy’s cock.
But his gaze was aimed her way.
When Sixx had recruited her, Molly had shared her men were not fans of what was going on, and they’d offered to take her back when she was in the club.
She didn’t need it, but from the note, the look and head motions this guy was giving her, he wanted her to chill while he took care of his pussy and his meat before she went in.
Nice, but unnecessary.
Unfortunately, since she had to leave in an hour, that night was only reconnaissance. She wasn’t going to make any moves.
Further, that wasn’t the job she’d been hired to do.
Get the evidence, give it to Josh, he’d take it to Barclay Richardson, and they’d do whatever it was they were going to do.
Still, she might slip up and have to hand someone his ass.
She was unpredictable that way.
In a case like that, it was always good to have backup.
Just, you know, should anyone try to intervene.
Not to mention, anything could happen, and if backup was on offer …
Especially from a tall, seriously built warlord.
Therefore, she found herself dipping her chin to the warlord and turning away, wondering what would happen if she told Stellan about this job. He knew she took things on outside the firm. But this one, he’d have a particular response. She was in no doubt he’d find it as offensive as she did, and he’d want something done about it.
Though she might have learned the hard way he could take care of himself, he was still a businessman—not an investigator, not a fixer, not of this part of her life, this part of the world, and maybe that was also what she missed, since they shared everything else, but this was still the great divide.
Sixx put these thoughts of out her mind and gave the dancefloor a good scan, trying to differentiate players, possibly identify the girls Beardsley was using, or, if luck turned her way, witness a solicitation.
Nothing doing.
She turned her head again to the mystical creatures and sighed when she saw her boy was up, his back now to her. He was still fully clothed, but it didn’t take close observation to know who’d drawn what straw that night since his boy was now being force-fed cock.
Damn it, she didn’t have a lot of time, and her self-appointed backup needed to quit fucking around, literally, or she was going in alone.
On that thought, she stood and moved their way.
When she got close and rounded them, she saw Molly was involved, back to the seated man’s thighs, mouth full of balls as warlord-sub-for-the-night got his face fucked and warlord-Dom-for-the-night did the face fucking.
Warlord Dom turned his head and frowned down at her.
Yep.
So seriously gladiator material.
“Respect, my man, but I got shit to do,” she told him. “You want to get your rocks off, have at it, but I have to go in.”
He looked down at the handful of hair he was holding, grunted in a deep baritone that thrummed even through Sixx, “Swallow,” then thrust hard, let out a low groan, and jerked a couple of times.
With no further ado, he pulled out and freed himself from the lips latched around his balls, doing this casually, before he tucked himself into his brown suede warlord breeches.
“Keep him hard,” he told Molly. “I want him in pain when I come up his ass later.”
“Yes, my sire,” she murmured, sliding off the guy’s lap to curl between his legs and gobble down his now exposed, impressively massive, distended cock that Sixx saw was trussed tight with a thin, leather cord at the base and around his balls, tethering them and separating them.
This meaning it would be impossible for him to come, all this making his handsome, needy face pained, handsome and needier when Molly started up on him.
Those wings fluttered very prettily when a pixie gave a blowjob.
Nice.
Dom-for-the-night warlord jerked his chin up at her.
Guess in alpha-warlord speak that meant he was ready to rumble.
She moved away, and he fell in step at her side as she tried to remember which of the names she knew the two of them had was his.
It was Diesel, who Molly also referred to as D, or Maddox.
She was thinking Diesel.
“Nice bite,” he remarked over the music.