Onyx Gryphon: A Paranormal Shifter Romance (Gryphons vs Dragons Book 4)

by Ruby Ryan

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Foreword

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Epilogue

  Amethyst Gryphon

  Gryphons vs Dragons Series

  Karak Contact

  Karak Shifter Series

  About

  Gryphons vs Dragons #4

  Onyx Gryphon

  By Ruby Ryan

  Copyright © 2018 Juicy Gems Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior consent of the author.

  Cover image by Alexander Corey

  Edited by Dorothy Heller

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  Hold on a second!

  This is a standalone paranormal shifter romance, meaning you can start here and have an awesome time. But if you haven’t read the first three books in the Gryphons vs Dragons series, you’re missing some backstory and context that will make this one more enjoyable. If you’ve got the time, give those a shot first—I promise you won’t regret it! Click here to get them for free on Kindle Unlimited.

  Otherwise, enjoy Onyx Gryphon!

  -Ruby

  1

  CASSANDRA

  I sat in the conference room and pretended to listen, even though my mind was on tonight.

  “I just don’t think they’re sold on the campaign.” That was Jimmy, an empty-chair Vice President and the one who’d called this last-minute meeting. He also happened to be my boss. He swiveled in his chair and shook his head. “We might need to come up with new ideas.”

  “That’s not the impression we got,” Amy said with barely contained frustration. I noticed, but doubted Jimmy would. “Their reaction to the March proposal was more enthusiastic than we’d ever seen.”

  I could hear the subtext in Amy’s statement: we saw their reaction, not you. Jimmy was famous for introducing himself to the clients on the first day, skipping all the important meetings, and then swooping in at the last minute to give his unrequested (and unsubstantiated) opinion. Even after working with him for three years I wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe it made him feel more important. Or maybe after skipping most of the client meetings he felt the need to justify his role in the process by saying something before a campaign went live. But whatever the reason, it was always a pain in my team’s collective ass.

  “Well…” Jimmy began. Amy shot me a here it comes look. “I had lunch with Thomas Roddick yesterday. Their VP of marketing? Now, he didn’t say so explicitly, but I got the impression his people aren’t satisfied.” He put up his hands defensively. “Just telling you what I’m seeing.”

  It took every ounce of willpower not to roll my eyes. It was always some vague bullshit with Jimmy. Thomas Roddick could have coughed at the wrong time during their special executive lunch and Jimmy would have taken it as a sleight against my team.

  I could see the steam rising in Amy’s ears. It was time to intervene.

  “How about this,” I quickly cut in. Six sets of eyes swung toward me. “I’ll speak to Sharee discretely. See if they’re truly satisfied with our proposal. If not, we can go over the backup proposals we had and see if anything else catches their eye.” I nodded at Jimmy. “It’s always good to make sure we’re bringing as much value to our clients as possible.”

  It was what he needed to hear: that his input was being considered. He nodded as if there wasn’t any other possible conclusion we could have come to and rose from his chair. “Great work, ladies. I don’t say it enough, but you’re crushing it out there.”

  Amy waited until he was out of the room and the door had closed with a click.

  “Ladies,” she muttered. “I swear he says it more condescendingly every time.”

  “He means well. He’s just…” I scrunched up my face. “He’s just too high up. Doesn’t realize he doesn’t need to micromanage every client anymore.”

  “We’re not really going to dig up the backup proposals at this stage in the campaign, right?” Amy asked. “We’ve already purchased the air time…”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Not this far along. I’ll send an email to Sharee to make sure they’re satisfied with our direction. I know they are, but it’ll give us something in writing to show Jimmy.” I put on my best manager’s voice. “I’ve got it taken care of. Don’t let this distract from the rest of the campaign. Not when we’re so close to launch. Are there any questions, comments, or concerns?”

  The women around the table all shook their heads. I met each of their eyes one at a time, decided they were all comfortable with the direction, and then nodded.

  “Sorry we had to have this last-minute meeting,” I said as I rose. “Next time I’ll try to head Jimmy off at the pass.”

  They began shuffling out, and Amy put a delicate hand on my shoulder in passing. “Thanks, Cassie. You’re the best.”

  “I’m not Jimmy—there’s no need to stroke my ego,” I whispered, and we both chuckled.

  Ego-stroking aside, I was good at my job. Advertising wasn’t just about picking a good idea and blasting it on television and billboards; it was about reading people. Finding out what your clients wanted, especially when they themselves didn’t know what that was. That was the true talent in a job like this, beyond all the client-massaging bullshit that Jimmy did.

  And reading people made me an expert in my other job.

  “You got lunch plans?” Amy looked at her watch as we left the conference room. “I’m thinking Chang’s, but I’m not sold on Thai food…”

  I gave her an apologetic smile. “I brought a salad.”

  Amy blinked. “Salad? Saving up those calories so you can splurge on the weekend?”

  “You know me.”

  “Well then enjoy your salad.” Amy made a face and broke off down the hall toward her office.

  I strode along with extra strut in my step. It was true that I’d brought a salad for lunch, but that wasn’t the real reason I was staying in. I had other plans. The plans I’d been thinking about all morning.

  Marketing was just my day job. The weekend was when my true calling began.

  I was the most sought-after escort in Chicago. And Friday was when I picked my weekend clients.

  *

  I carried my laptop into the office lunch room, choosing a secluded table up against the far wall. The view from the 32nd floor was normally breathtaking, but today the fog rolling off the lake made it impossible to see farther than a few blocks. I sat at the table with my back to the window so nobody could see my screen.

  I opened my salad, took a few bites, and then got to work.

  First I disconnected the laptop from the company Wi-Fi, choosing instead to connect to the hots
pot of the burner phone in my pocket. The symbol in my system tray spun, then gave a green check-mark. Once that was done I navigated to the folder deep on my hard drive with the TOR browser installed. I launched that and waited for the VPN to initiate, then logged into the ProtonMail account I shared with my “recruiter.”

  The entire process was agonizingly slower, but one couldn’t be too careful in this business. Every veil of privacy was a shield to keep me safe.

  My recruiter—who I’d never even met, but who I trusted after two years—had forwarded 15 applicants for this weekend. Busier than normal, but my heart sang to see so many. Each one was a boost to my ego, rich and powerful men who wanted to pay exorbitant amounts of money for my time.

  I gazed around the crowded lunch room, picked at my salad, and began examining the applicants.

  They were as thorough as job applications, maybe even more so considering some of the questions asked. Employment. Income. Marital status, sexual history, sexual perversions, ethnicity, religion. All the things you couldn’t ask on a real job interview. Then the requests for this appointment: length of time, public or private event, then the specific sexual acts expected. In this line of work, it was ideal to get everything laid out up front. Sometimes clients held back on their applications, but I could usually read between the lines. See what they really wanted.

  Last week had been a blast. A beautiful silver-haired man who reminded me of Richard Gere, quiet and thoughtful and devastatingly handsome. Someone whose scattering of wrinkles only accentuated his good looks. He took me to dinner before the ballet, where we had tickets in a private box overlooking the stage. By the end of the night I was dying for his touch as much as he was for mine, and then we fucked until our throats were sore from moaning and our bodies too fatigued to move.

  I sighed at the memory of my Richard Gere lookalike. Another night like that would be divine.

  After two years of this (95 weekends to be exact, but who’s counting?) I’d gotten good at spotting red flags. One guy, an executive at some downtown law firm, stressed multiple times in his application that the need for secrecy was paramount—yet listed himself as “single.” Yeah fucking right. Declined. Fake names were to be expected, but one guy used a name so ridiculous that I couldn’t help but hit the delete button. Sorry, Mr. Bigdick McHugecock. Maybe next weekend.

  Two applicants were women. Although I enjoyed the company of women occasionally, that wasn’t what I was looking for this weekend. Tonight, I wanted a man. And when you were as sought-after as I was, you could afford to be picky.

  And then it was time to look at the perversions. I deleted three men who were looking for BDSM. I’d done bondage two weekends ago, and wanted something more vanilla tonight. Another applicant didn’t actually list any sexual requests, and instead used the space to ask me half a dozen questions about my feet: the size and proportion of my toes, whether they were polished, if I would wear a pair of heels he already owned. That one I forwarded back to my recruiter with a “WTF?” note. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one to judge someone for their sexual quirks. Everyone has their thing, and for the most part they can’t help what squeezes their lemon. But my recruiter knew I wasn’t into feet, and she should have filtered this one out.

  That left me with seven remaining applicants.

  Now I could be a little more shallow with my selections. It was important to have an immediate connection with the applicants. I wasn’t some Vegas hooker who faked it for an hour; I threw myself 100% into whoever I chose. No faking—there had to be a spark. That’s what made me so good.

  With that in mind, I opened each of the seven remaining head shots and arranged them on my screen. I ate my salad, stared at the men, and listened to my heart.

  By the time my salad was gone I’d narrowed it down to three candidates. Three gorgeous men, each of whom I’d be excited to spend the weekend with.

  Something vibrated in my pocket—on my work phone. I opened it and cursed: a five minute reminder for a conference call. I’d spent almost an hour in here reviewing applicants.

  I quickly closed the TOR browser and disconnected from my burner phone’s hotspot, then carried my laptop back to my office.

  I listened to the call with only half an ear, which I could get away with since I was only on it as a courtesy. All I could think about were the three remaining candidates, one of whom I’d be spending the weekend with. Their faces and names (face or otherwise) replayed in my head while I stared at the ceiling.

  Edgar Degas, an art dealer who probably thought he was clever with his fake name. He had a handsome triangular face and a hooked nose, and a smile that boasted of unspoken secrets. He only needed me for one night: there was an art gallery opening downtown, and he wanted me attached to his arm the entire night. In the notes he mentioned a specific dress he’d commissioned specially for me, a detail which had originally piqued my interest but was beginning to creep me out the more I thought about it. One night only was another drawback. I was in the mood for a weekend affair.

  Jamaal Young, a forward for the Boston Celtics in town to play the Bulls. A bench player for the Celtics, a quick search told me. I liked the cockiness of using his real name. Confidence turned me on, especially when they were already attractive. He wanted me to sit court-side during tonight’s game, then go clubbing with him after. The team wasn’t flying out until Sunday, so it was a two-day engagement. Sexually, he wanted someone to sit on his face. I imagined straddling his muscular body, moving up his chest and then smothering his face with my sex, pinning him to the floor of the hotel room with my curvaceous hips, covering him like it was a full-court press. Mmm, that did sound nice.

  Someone asked me a question on the conference call. “That sounds like a good plan to me,” I said, then muted the line again. That seemed to placate them.

  The last applicant was Miguel Rojas. An investment manager for a company I’d never heard of, which meant they were small. No particular sexual requests, which could have meant he was too embarrassed to list them or could have meant he was relatively vanilla. He wanted me through the entire weekend, all the way until Sunday night, which was the maximum time the form would allow someone to enter.

  Oh, and he was gorgeous.

  He was Latino, with delicious dark skin and eyes like drops of caramel. His hard jaw was lined with a thin beard, and I could see the muscle in his shoulders and neck. I imagined what the rest of him looked like, and I liked what I pictured.

  The lack of other information intrigued me. He was single, and the same age as me: 32. His sexual history was suspiciously low, but as I imagined him gazing at me I believed it. He didn’t want anything fancy, no movie premiere or art gallery opening to attend. Just some dirty horizontal dancing.

  I was used to being taken out by notable men. I was an accessory to most of them: something that hung onto their arm and smiled in public, with the fucking as an added bonus. I liked that. It made me feel important.

  As I’d said, I was good at reading people. It gave me an advantage in advertising, and made me the perfect escort. Reading between the lines, the things they didn’t list on their applications. The desires they didn’t even know they wanted.

  But for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what Miguel wanted.

  There were other escorts in Chicago with price tags far below what I charged. Like, literally an order of magnitude lower. If all he wanted was a night of passion, why come to me?

  The question intrigued me, and once it had latched onto my brain it wouldn’t let go. There was something there, I could tell, but what was it?

  My conference call ended, and then I was alone with my thoughts. Friday afternoons were always the toughest with the excitement of the weekend bubbling in my head, but today more than most. I’d narrowed it down between Jamaal and Miguel, but struggled to go from there.

  In the end, the mystery was what won.

  I switched my laptop back over to the hotspot and connected to my VPN long enough to send th
e acceptance email out. My recruiter would take it from there: notifying the applicant, requesting payment, then coordinating our meeting place.

  A tingle went up my spine the moment the email was away.

  “Hey, Cassie,” one of the middle managers said as I left for the day. “A bunch of us are getting drinks if you wanted to stop by.”

  I gave him a polite smile. “I appreciate the invite, but I’ve got plans.”

  “No worries—have a great weekend.”

  I strode toward the elevator with a silly grin on my face.

  Oh, I intend to.

  2

  CASSANDRA

  America had weird issues with prostitution.

  I mean, I guess I understood it in broad strokes. The stereotypical prostitute was a scrawny homeless woman in a tube top with track marks on her arms and half her teeth missing. Someone who had no other options in life but to have sex for money, and who was beholden to her pimp’s demands. Someone who had to sell their body out of desperation, because the system had failed them, and because the alternative was to starve and die.

  But I was an educated adult. I had a Master’s Degree for crying out loud, and a thriving career. I had options in life. I didn’t have to sleep with strangers for money. I chose to, with full informed consent. I got as much out of it as they did, my recruiter ensured all applicants were clean of STDs and had nothing suspicious on their background checks.

  I was a high-end escort in the 3rd largest city in America, and I loved it.

  What was so bad about that?

  I swung by the dry cleaners to pick up my favorite cocktail dress: it was cream-colored and covered with black lace in floral designs, and hung off my arms in a way that accentuated my shoulders. Not only that, but it fit me the way most dresses didn’t.

  I was curvaceous. Not large, but I had a lot of shape to me. Wide hips and an ass I was proud of, which I kept looking the way it did every week at the gym. An ass that NBA players wanted to be smothered under.