I Asked The Butler

The yacht’s deck gleamed under the Mediterranean sun like a predator’s smile. **Lana**, still scrubbing the scent of gas station coffee from her memory, traced a finger over the embossed envelope—thick as a sin and twice as heavy. Inside, a single ivory card read: *"Midnight. Wear nothing but the necklace."*

She’d expected a job offer. Not a **command**.

Around her, the rest of the crew—**Mason** with his calloused hands, **Jules** with her razor-sharp tongue, and **Dante**, who’d once stolen a forklift for *fun*—clutched identical invitations. Their benefactor? A shadowy "Mr. V," who’d plucked them from dead-end lives and dropped them into a world where **champagne bottles had no tops… and neither did the rules**.

"Bet it’s a cult," Mason muttered, flipping the card like a poker chip.

Jules snorted. "Cults don’t serve caviar in the **dungeon**."

Dante just smirked, already unbuttoning his shirt. "The first one to get spanked gets a bonus."

And as the clock struck twelve, the **real** inheritance began—between bitten lips, silk blindfolds, and the unmistakable *thwack* of **wealth hitting skin**…

The night air buzzed with a sultry energy, as if even the wind itself was playing to a different rhythm. **Lana** took a deep breath, her heels clicking against the deck like the beat of a defiant heart. At the end of the hall, **Mason** stood like a sentinel, his eyes gleaming in the dark like a wolf's, daring her to go further.

"Ready for the party?" his deep voice rumbled.

*She lifted her chin, the dim light dancing in her eyes.* **"Ready to see what the rich call a good time."**

**The doors swung open with a whisper of silk against steel—**

Inside, the air was thick with bergamot and *something darker*. A chandelier dripping crystal shards cast fractured light over bodies tangled on low divans, their laughter sharp as the clink of ice in untouched glasses.

At the center of it all lounged **Mr. V**, a silhouette in a tailored suit, one gloved hand swirling a glass of something amber. *"Ah,"* he purred, *"the help has arrived."*

Jules choked on her champagne. *"Help?"*

His smile widened. *"Or should I say… entertainment?"*

And then—

A hand slid around Lana’s waist from behind, warm breath at her ear: *"The necklace stays. The rest? Optional."*

She caught a whiff of musk and sweat as the hand spun her around, revealing—

*Dante*. A slow smile crept across his face, his eyes never leaving her face as he took a gulp of golden liquid. His chest was bare, sculpted like the carved torso of an old Greek god that'd come to life to torment mortals.

"Welcome to the show," he murmured, his gaze tracing the line of her necklace.

**Lana’s pulse stuttered—**

Not at his nudity (though *God*, the way his hips tilted just so—), but at the **dare** in his eyes. The necklace’s emerald pendant grew heavy between her collarbones, a silent *yes* in a room where every breath was a negotiation.

Dante leaned in, lips grazing her earlobe. *“Rules are simple. You blush? You lose.”*

Behind them, Jules whistled. *“She’s already losing.”*

**Challenge accepted.**

Lana snatched Dante’s glass, downed it in one burning swallow, and—

*Placed the empty rim against his bare sternum, dragging it slowly, slowly down.*

His breath hitched.

*“Game on,”* she whispered.

**Mr. V** watched with hooded eyes, unmoving but for a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The gloves came off, finger by finger, revealing pale hands that could've belonged to a pianist or a surgeon. Or both.

His gaze slid to Dante's taut stomach, where the rim of the glass still lingered like a promise. *"Interesting move, darling."*

Dante met his gaze squarely, that lazy grin still in place. *"Only the best for our host."*

**Mr. V’s laugh was a velvet knife as he stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves—**

*“Then let’s make sure my investment pays off.”*

The room held its breath as he plucked the glass from Lana’s grip, his thumb brushing her knuckle. **Deliberate.** *Calculated.* Then—

—he pressed the cool crystal to Dante’s lower lip, tipping it just enough to make the last droplet cling, *teasing.*

*“Clean it up.”*

Dante’s tongue flicked out, slow and sinful, never breaking eye contact.

Jules fake-gagged into her martini. *“Ugh, are we getting paid to watch this or—”*

**SMACK.**

Mr. V’s palm connected with her ass in one crisp *pop* of skin on silk. *“You’re getting paid to participate.”*

Lana’s laugh tangled with the moan Jules tried to stifle.

The air thickened with something like anticipation, heavy as the velvet draped over the grand piano—

Lana watched as Mr. V reached to a silk cord, a slow smirk playing on his lips. *"Jules, darling. I have a proposal."*

Jules eyed him suspiciously. “What kind of proposal?”

His hand traced the rope. “One that involves you… and a few new *positions."*

**Jules** raised a brow, but there was a spark in her eyes that said she was interested—maybe even challenged—by the offer. *"Go on, Mr. V. What do you propose I do? The position I have right now is rather comfy."*

Mr. V chuckled, wrapping the cord around his hand. *"Oh, you won’t be comfortable in this one. Yet."*

He gestured to the piano, its glossy surface gleaming. *"Sit there. Hands behind your back. Don't move."*

Intrigue glittered in her gaze. She crossed the room, hips swaying with each step as she sat on the bench, pressing her wrists together behind her back. *"Like this?"*

Mr. V’s smile widened as he bound her wrists, the silk slipping through his hands like water. *"Perfect."*

**His fingers** traced the line of her shoulders, then moved up to her chin, tilting it back. *"Eyes on me, love. And don't look away until I say."*

Jules' eyes widened, but she nodded, holding his gaze.

Mason leaned against the wall, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. *"What are you going to do with her, exactly?"*

Mr. V chuckled, turning to face him. *"Isn't the suspense the best part, Mason?"*

He ran the tip of a finger along the piano’s edge until it came to rest on one white key, which he struck with a sharp *Ding!*

Jules flinched, her mouth opening—

Mr. V pressed a gloved hand over her lips, his voice a whisper. *"Quiet now, darling. I did say no moving. That includes screaming."*