Richer Than God

by Amelia Wilde

  Why did I ever think I could do this? Why did I ever think my heart would stand up to this? I pictured one man. Enough money to get out of the city. A high price. But the things Reya writes down are binding. Every swoop and fall of her pen is another promise to them.

  And not just any promise.

  A promise of me. My body. As naked as I was in that spa, but worse. They’ll be inside me. And Zeus doesn’t care. I didn’t come here for him to care. Of course I didn’t.

  The flush starts at my chest and rises to my hairline, and then it burns its way down the back of my neck and over my shoulder blades.

  “When, Zeus?”

  “The party,” he answers. “She’ll be ready at the party.”

  “Don’t fuck with us,” the man says. He has slate-colored eyes and a grin that doesn’t reach those eyes. “Will we be disappointed at the party?”

  “Are you ever disappointed at my events?” Zeus winks, and anticipation breathes itself into the room. The party, the party. What party is he talking about? They’re not arguing with him, which means that it must be soon.

  Which means I don’t have much time.

  I want to sink into the floor and cover my head, but I lift my chin instead, turning this way and that so they can see me. They’re looking, they’re looking, and it’s like they know what they’ll find under my dress. Of course they do. They’re buyers at a whorehouse, and I’m new. That’s my only value to them, and it kills me; it kills me to show myself off like this. Humiliation is as sharp as the pull of wax on my skin.

  Reya closes her ledger, and it must be some sort of signal, because the big door opens, and the other girls pour into the room.

  All the men stand up straight, drinks headed for side tables and the bookshelves so they have their hands free, and it’s like watching a cloud of glitter descend on the room. Bright dresses. Bright smiles. Perfect makeup.

  And hands, reaching. Savannah runs headlong into a man with his suit jacket unbuttoned and strokes the side of his face. He reaches around to her ass and squeezes it hard enough to leave a line in the fabric of her dress. She tips her head back and laughs. The scene repeats itself around the lounge. Asses slide onto laps. Hands cup breasts. Fingers creep up beneath hemlines. Giggles. Laughter. Sighs. One man wraps his hands around a girl’s neck and pulls her in close, whispering to her through gritted teeth. She pulls back, a finger on his chest. A negotiation. It’s a short one, and then he kisses her with a vicious bite. The flutter of her eyes gives away the pain, and then he’s bundling her out through an exit I didn’t notice before, already pulling at her dress.

  They’re going to do that to me.

  I knew that. I knew that when I decided to come here. I knew it in an abstract way, a way I tried not to imagine. I tried to keep it far from my mind so I could bear it when the day came. But now it’s impossible to ignore.

  Those men will do that to me, and they want to do it right now. It’s only Zeus who’s forcing them to wait.

  And I’m... grateful.

  It’s a reluctant, ill-fitting gratitude. Because the gorgeous god standing next to me, fending them off, is not a good man.

  But he’s given me a reprieve. If only for tonight.

  11

  Zeus

  The poor thing thinks I’ve saved her.

  The longer I look at Brigit, the more I can see her little tells. The way her eyes widen when she’s relieved, and the way they get wider when she’s afraid. The quiver in her jaw when she’s trying to be brave. The way she rubs her forefinger gently against her thumb instead of clenching her fist when she’s nervous. That blank expression from last night was a fucking lie, just like the idea that she gets a free pass tonight.

  So I stopped one man from groping her. That doesn’t mean we’re finished for the night.

  I keep her by my side all evening and well past midnight. It keeps her on edge, just how I like. Her sidelong glances give her away. She only believed me for about five minutes after I announced to the room that she won’t be available until the party.

  She doesn’t know it’s this weekend, but she’s still afraid, and it’s intoxicating. It’s especially intoxicating for me, because unlike the other men in this room, I know exactly how terrified she is of the prospect. If only I could see inside her mind. It would be quite something, watching her thoughts as she tries to wrestle with the idea of twelve men. The list, I haven’t told her yet, is up to fifteen. Some girls have come in commanding a list of ten, which makes for a long second night after the bidding is finished.

  And because I like the scent of her fear, I keep dangling her in front of them. Making her sit on my lap. Making her stand at my side. Keeping her wrist in my hand, held loosely on top of the arm of my chair. Reminding her, with every breath, that I could crush her. It makes me hard. Obnoxiously so. The discussions this late at night inevitably turn to the whores the men have fucked and who they plan to visit next time they arrive. It’s boring but necessary conversation. This is how I keep trouble at Olympus to a minimum. The clients who are unhappy find their way to the lounge and tell me all about it. The girls who sense an oncoming storm bring me a drink and whisper in my ear. I send people to break things up, to interrupt before escalating situations get out of control. It’s a fucking circus, and I’m the one in the middle.

  All I want is to get off this fucking ride and take Brigit to my room. It’s a double-edged sword, really. I’m scaring her, on purpose, because I like it. And she’s teasing me, unthinkingly, because she can’t help it. Her trip to the spa this afternoon should have demonstrated that I’m not afraid to humiliate her in front of a crowd. Making the list should have confirmed it.

  I wait until the lounge has cleared out, until the very last whispers have faded. I wait until she relaxes, her shoulders letting down. Someone handed me a drink a few minutes ago, and I let go of Brigit, giving her a foot or two of space. She glances toward the door then back at me. Her fingertip circles the pad of her thumb. “Is it time for me to go?”

  “No.”

  She blinks, once, lamplight in her eyes. Reya crosses her legs on the other side of the room. “Then what—”

  “You’re still being trained.” I put my empty glass on a side table. “You’ve been so amusing that I’ll give you another choice. Me, or you can take your chances with whoever is left in this room.”

  Brigit looks.

  There are four of them, mostly deep in their drink, but one sits by the fireplace. He’s a regular client, prone to dark moods and rough sex. He looks particularly dark tonight. He’s been watching Brigit since the moment we entered the room. He’s watching her now. I planned to take her to my room for this, but the whiskey and my mood have combined into a dangerous elixir. Let him see that she’s still mine.

  “You.”

  “Good choice.” I plant my feet and point to a spot between my legs. “Come here.”

  When she does, I knock her knees apart and pull her roughly onto my lap. Her dress hikes up almost to her hips, the fabric whispering over her thighs, and she bites her lip. “We could go to your office,” she suggests.

  “Do you think you’ll be fucking clients in my office?”

  The pink on her cheeks is the same color her ass was when Savannah was done slapping her. I shouldn’t have given that up so casually. I’ll make up for it later. “No.”

  “It’s unlikely you’ll fuck clients here either. But this is a special case.”

  The color drains from her face. “You’re not… not here—”

  I take her face in my hand and pull her close so I can bite her lip. She shudders at the pain but doesn’t pull away. “And if I did fuck you here, what would you have to say about it? There are other ways for you to get your money. There’s a man in this room who would pay right now for the privilege. But he won’t pay as well as I do, and he won’t be as gentle.”

  “You’re not gentle.”

  “That’s right. You’re going to have to give me a better performance
than this, sweetheart. Otherwise, I’ll bend you over and let him have his way with you. He would like it.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and for an instant, she looks so vulnerable, so innocent, that I almost unzip my pants and take her now, just to hear her scream. “What?”

  Brigit’s chin is so delicate in my hand.

  “We’re in the business of pleasure.” My cock wants it too. Painfully. “Not fear. Not always fear,” I amend. “There are some sick fucks who like to make women cry.”

  “Like you?”

  “You’re so ungrateful for this morning. It’s my fault.” I stroke a thumb across the line of her jaw. “I should teach you to be more grateful for what I give you.”

  “I am grateful.” Her gaze flickers over to the last of the clients, and Brigit wriggles her hips up toward mine. She must be desperate for any sense of stability. Well, she can have it. But she’ll have to pay. “Thank you.”

  A laugh escapes me. “Not even close.”

  “I’m so grateful.” She reaches for the front of my jacket, smoothing it down in tentative strokes, gentle touches. “Please. What else can I do to prove it to you?”

  “I already told you.” I slide my hand up under her dress. It’s all lace and heat between her thighs. Wet lace. Oh, she pretends, Brigit—she pretends that she doesn’t want this, but she’s like all the other women. “Show me how much you like this.”

  Show me all of it, all the shame and the guilt and the hurt and how pretty it is.

  I shove aside the lace and push two fingers into her slick hole.

  She’s so tight I have to keep my eyes locked on hers, lest they roll back in my head. Brigit fists the shoulders of my jacket and lets out a tentative moan. I know, without having to ask, that she’s never been touched like this before. A breath hisses between my teeth. A true virgin. And here she is, pretending to like the rough invasion of my fingers.

  I add another one and she clenches down on them, letting her head fall back. “Show it more,” I tell her. Casual, like she’s any other whore. She’s just one of the whores, and I don’t care. This feeling that I’m experiencing is not care. “This isn’t just for me, you know. Play your cards right, and the men in here will spread the word that you’re worth the price.”

  My heart seizes at the thought of it, and my cock heartily disagrees. It wants her for itself.

  I need her for myself.

  I twist my fingers inside of her, and she responds—God, fuck, she responds—getting wetter even as she winces.

  “This is nothing,” I hiss. “You’re not even moving your hips. Fuck my fingers.”

  She screws her hips forward as much as she can, given that her legs are spread over mine. Awkwardness flickers over her face, followed by hot embarrassment, but she keeps trying. It has to hurt, but I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. Her pain and her grit are too delicious. “Yes,” she whispers.

  I believe her. I can fucking feel it on my fingers how she’s responding to this. Her brain might not recognize it as anything so simple as pleasure, but her body does.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Brigit snaps her head forward, eyes locking on mine, and bites down hard on her lip. It’s like she’s trying to keep the sounds in, but she can’t, rocking her hips forward in a slow roll until my fingertips meet a barrier inside her. She wasn’t lying. She’s a virgin. A real, honest-to-fuck virgin, and I’m going to tear through it. I’m going to hurt her so she never forgets.

  My cock strains against my pants, my vision darkening at the edges. I’m on the verge of letting them all see what happens when I let my guard down. It would be the first time it’s ever happened in a room of the club, and I pull back at the last moment, my toes hanging over a plummeting drop. My father did me a fucking favor. He made sure I could hide the reality of me behind smiles and suits.

  She’s testing that resolve.

  Right. Fucking. Now.

  Breathy moans escape her, and the sound of glass on wood alerts me to the shifting energy in the room. They’re all leaned forward, watching intently, watching with heat in their eyes and money in their pockets. If Brigit were any other girl, I’d throw her to them right now. I’d take the profit.

  It would be an admission. An admission I can’t make.

  She finds herself up, higher and higher until she cries out, clapping a hand over her mouth at the last moment. The cry fuses with the air and seems to go on forever, like a ringing in my ears.

  Brigit opens her eyes. She takes her other hand from my shoulder and hooks her fingers in the front of her dress. It strikes me as shockingly intimate, even for a whorehouse—her legs slung over mine, my fingers pushed against her cherry.

  “Not good enough.”

  Her shoulders sag a little, and then she straightens up, placing her hand back on my shoulder and digging her nails through my jacket and shirt.

  I’m not a kind man.

  So I’ve put my thumb against her clit and am circling it with a soft motion that could be mistaken for gentleness.

  It’s not, and Brigit knows it for what it is, which is why it’s so fascinating to see the hitch in her breath and the way her pupils expand, pushing the green of her eyes to a thin line.

  Exhilarating to feel her tighten again on my fingers, to feel her get wetter.

  And addicting to feel the way her hips start to move in their own rhythm.

  It’s almost nothing, what I’m doing to her, but it rolls over me like a boulder, flattening all feeling into one: need.

  I pin one of her hips with my free hand and drive my fingers into her, testing the resistance. It’s a matter of inches, and I want it so much I can fucking taste it. It wrenches my heart in my chest and sends electric jolts down toward my abs and lower, to where my cock is hungry for her.

  “Don’t do this,” she breathes.

  “Do what? You’ve already come in front of all of them, like the good little slut you want to be so badly.”

  “Don’t,” she begs. “Please. Wait.”

  “No.”

  Brigit tries to inch her hips back, away from my touch, but she can’t—I’ve trapped her. And she must know, deep down, that if she’s successful, I’ll let her fall to the floor in an embarrassed heap. The men would take that as a signal. They’d be on her before I could step away.

  Her eyes go a little unfocused, moving down over my face, and this is the difference between the fake and reality—the reality is much softer. Fuck, she’ll be a pleasure to hurt. Her cheeks go red, and redder, and finally she can’t control the movement of her hips anymore. She’s fucking herself too hard, and it hurts every time my fingers make contact, but all I get out of her is tiny gasps punctuating desperate, wordless pleas.

  It takes her by surprise, in the end. Brigit screws herself down until she’s got my fingers in deep. Freezes. For a moment, she could be a sculpture—Woman in Pain or Ecstasy—and then the wave breaks over her and she comes in quick, fluttering spasms, eyes shutting, lips parted. My fingers are slick with it, heart thudding, blood a waterfall in my ears.

  I shove her off me then, wiping my fingers on my pants. She draws herself up to her full height, patting down her dress, and puts on a smile. Her fingers wriggle in a tiny wave to the men in the corner. I asked for a show, and I’m getting one, even now. Slowly, elegantly, she turns around and moves to the door.

  I’m the only one who can see the glint of tears on her cheeks.

  12

  Brigit

  There’s someone in my room with me, someone trying hard to be quiet. My eyelids feel glued together, so it’s a struggle to open them, but once I do, an apologetic face swims into view. “Hi,” the girl whispers. She looks to be about my age, with auburn hair and freckles. “Hey, Brigit. I didn’t mean to wake you up. It’s really late—or really early.”

  I clear my throat. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Alicia. I’m supposed to be sharing this room.” She climbs into the other bed and pulls up the sheets like t
hey’re the most luxurious thing she’s ever touched. “Don’t worry; I’m just paying my dues.”

  “Dues?” It seems reasonable enough, but I’m exhausted. He made me come in front of a bunch of men. Future clients. But that’s not what made me cry. What made me cry is how much I liked it, in the end. How much I liked those golden eyes on my face and thick fingers stretching me. I don’t understand what’s happening in my own mind. Unsettling as hell.

  “I went away for a while,” she whispers. “It’s better here, but you can’t just waltz back into your old room. So we’re sharing. Go back to sleep.”

  I’m exhausted enough to do it. It’s better here. Better than what? I try to ask, but I’m only asking in my dreams. Alicia never hears. Eventually, I slip below the surface of dreams and into darkness. When I wake up again, she’s hovering over me, her hair in a neat twist above her head. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  I try to burrow back beneath the blankets. It’s too early, and too much. “No. I can’t.” Another memory—the mention of a party. If the party is soon, that means there will be more training, and there’s only one logical next step. Half of me wants to march down to Zeus’s office right now and make him do it. But that would only backfire. He’d make me wait. Or worse, he’d make it public.

  She laughs, and the sound is kind. Is she a friend? “It’s time for breakfast. We slept past the maids, and I bet you’re supposed to be downstairs by now.”

  Alicia’s right. I throw back the blankets and put my feet on the floor. “I just need a minute.”

  I disappear into the shower, scrubbing the shame off my skin as best as I can, and when I turn off the water, there’s a gentle knock. “These were at the door.” Alicia’s got a stack of clothing, and she hands them to me with a smile. “They’re yours, I think.”

  They’re my size, and they were at my room, so I’ll take the chance. It’s not a maid’s uniform. I’ve at least earned this, and it gives me a thrill of pride. Soft leggings and an equally soft shirt, with sleeves that reach exactly to my wrists. It’s the kind of outfit I’d never wear if I was going outside at the height of summer. These clothes say that I’m not going outside. They’ve been perfectly matched with the coolness of the central air here. A shiver goes up my arms. There are even panties—cotton—and a matching bralette. Small tits. That’s what those men said when they looked me over.