Chapter 159
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint, distant sound of the pool filters. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I let my eyes trail over him—the expensive tailoring, the $50,000 watch, and the nervous twitch in his jaw.
Up close, Lana’s husband looked less like a lion and more like a high-end accountant. He had that "successful nerd" energy—the kind of guy who spent his life winning at math but losing at life. He reminded me of a tech-billionaire version of Peter Parker: all the resources in the world, but still couldn’t get laid by Mary Jane.
Money was his only superpower. And while money can buy a palace, it can’t buy the kind of raw, pheromonal dominance I’d just used to break his wife.
"I asked you a question, didn’t I?" Michael snapped, his voice pitching a fraction higher, his face turning a blotchy, frustrated red. "Who the fuck are you?"
I let the grin spread slowly, a dark, effortless expression that didn’t reach my eyes. I leaned against the mahogany wall, crossing my arms to let the robe hang open just enough to show the scratches on my chest—the ones Lana had left ten minutes ago.
"Relax, Mike," I said, my voice a calm, steady contrast to his frantic energy. I sized him up like a bug under a microscope. "I’m the guy who makes sure your wife stays legendary. I’m the King of Porn."
The blood drained from his face. For a second, I thought he might actually swing, but he just stood there, vibrating with a mix of shock and a weird, suppressed fascination. He looked like he wanted to scream, but he also looked like he wanted to ask for an autograph.
"The... the talent?" he stammered, his eyes darting to the scratches on my skin. "Lana said... she said her new project was a solo retrospective. She didn’t say there was a co-star."
"Well," I said, stepping past him and intentionally brushing my shoulder against his, "consider this a surprise addition to the family business."
Michael’s face went from blotchy red to a deep, bruised purple. He stepped toward me, his fists trembling at his sides.
"This is your fault," he hissed, his voice cracking with a mixture of grief and rage. "She was done with that life! She was mine! You’re the one who dragged her back into the gutter. You convinced her to come out of retirement, to throw away the dignity I gave her just so you could use her for a paycheck!"
He took a jagged breath, trying to summon a shadow of the man in the portrait. "I should beat the living shit out of you right here. I should make you pay for every second you spent touching what belongs to me."
I didn’t move. I didn’t even drop my grin. I just tilted my head, looking down at him with the bored curiosity of a predator watching a frantic bird. "Then do it, Mike. Stop talking about the man you want to be and show me who you actually are. Try it. See what happens when you touch me."
He leaned in, his knuckles white, his chest heaving as he prepared to make the biggest mistake of his life.
But the explosion never came.
The heavy glass doors to the pool house swung open, and the wet slap of bare feet on marble echoed through the hall. Lana walked in, completely unashamed of her nakedness. She was still glistening, her skin flushed, and the scent of our session followed her like a cloud.
She didn’t even look at the tension between us. She walked straight up to Michael, draped her soft, damp arms around his neck, and pressed a deep, lingering kiss to his mouth—the same mouth I had just been buried in minutes before.
"Michael, darling," she purred against his lips, her voice dripping with mock-innocence. "I didn’t know you’d be home so early. You’re just in time to see the dailies. Druski has been... impeccable."
Michael stood frozen, his arms hanging limp at his sides as his wife used him for balance, her naked body pressed against his expensive suit. He looked over her shoulder at me, his eyes filled with a soul-crushing realization: she wasn’t being forced. She was enjoying every second of his humiliation.
If only he knew exactly where those lips had been ten minutes ago. I’d emptied myself into her throat, and here he was, drinking from the same glass and calling it wine.
He held her with a desperate, worshipful grip, like a man afraid his favorite toy was about to break. I couldn’t entirely blame the guy; Lana’s pussy was a drug, a high-octane addiction that made men do stupid things, like spend millions to keep her in a cage she was clearly meant to escape.
I leaned back against the wall, my arms crossed, watching the pathetic display with a sharp, jagged edge of amusement.
"He was just telling me how much he hates your comeback project, Lana," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet of the hallway like a blade. "In fact, your husband was just threatening to beat the shit out of me for ’ruining’ your dignity. He seems to think I’m the one who dragged you back into this."
Lana pulled back just an inch, her fingers tracing the jawline of Michael’s pale, frozen face. She looked at him with a pitying sort of hunger that made my skin crawl in the best way possible.
"Is that true, Michael?" she murmured, her thumb brushing over his bottom lip—the same thumb she’d just used to taste me. "Are you being a bore? After I worked so hard to give the fans what they want?"
Michael’s voice was a strangled whisper. "Lana... he’s a barbarian. This isn’t art, it’s—"
"It’s exactly what I needed," she interrupted, turning her head to flash me a wicked, conspiratorial grin. She looked back at her husband. "Maybe you should show him exactly why I came out of retirement, Druski. Why don’t you show him how much you appreciate my... talents? Or better yet, why don’t you watch the playback with us?
."
Michael looked like he was going to vomit and climax at the same time. The humiliation was his oxygen.
I’d had enough of Michael’s pathetic energy for one afternoon. The sight of a man with that much money acting like a kicked puppy was starting to kill my high.
"I’ve seen enough of him for one day," I said, pushing off the wall and giving Michael one last, dismissive glance—the kind you give a bug you decided not to step on. "Lana, I’m heading to the guest suite to finish cleaning up.We still have a long schedule ahead of us."
I didn’t wait for a reply. I turned my back on the power couple and walked down the long, echoing gallery toward the bedroom they’d prepared for me.
The suite was overkill—silk sheets, a king-sized bed that cost more than a mid-range sedan, and a bathroom that was basically a spa. I stripped out of the robe and stepped into the walk-in shower, letting the high-pressure jets blast the remaining scent of the pool and the sweat of the session off my skin.
As the steam rose around me, I leaned my head against the cool marble tile. I could still feel the phantom ghost of Lana’s grip on my hair. The money was in the bank, the first Legend was conquered, and her husband was currently being dismantled in the next room.
The hot water worked the tension out of my muscles, but it couldn’t wash away the adrenaline. I stepped out of the shower, dried off, and pulled on a fresh, sharp outfit—black jeans and a fitted shirt that hugged my frame.
I was heading toward the door to rejoin Sasha and Lana for the review when my phone chimed against the marble counter.
RedEye:When you’re done shooting, I’m coming to pick you up. Monet wants to see you.
Abigail. Just seeing her name on the screen brought back the memory of her cold, professional exterior—and the fire I knew was buried underneath it. The thought of being in the back of that darkened car alone with her, away from the studio lights and the drama of the "Legends," sent a different kind of surge through me. I was definitely going to push my luck tonight.
But the mention of Monet stopped me. What did she want this time? A victory lap in the bedroom? Or was this about Sasha moving in on her territory? In this industry, a "meeting" with Monet was never just a conversation.
I shot back a quick reply: "I’ll be ready. Don’t keep me waiting."
I pocketed the phone and headed back toward the pool house. If I was going to be the king of this new era, I needed to make sure the foundation was solid.
As I walked back into the viewing room, the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and tension. Sasha was hunched over the monitors, her face lit by the glow of the playback, and Lana was draped on a chaise lounge, sipping champagne like she’d just won the lottery.
And then there was Michael. He was standing in the corner, clutching a glass of scotch like a life preserver, staring at the screen where his wife’s face was frozen in a moment of pure, unadulterated ecstasy—under me.
"Ah, the man of the hour," Sasha said, not looking up. "Come look at this, Druski. The 4K render of the climax is... well, it’s going to cost some people their marriages."
I walked over, intentionally standing right next to Michael. I could smell the scotch and the defeat on him.
"Everything looks better in high definition, doesn’t it, Mike?" I said, my voice smooth and dangerous.