Her fingers were moving harshly inside the clenching depths of her cunt, her palm grinding against her clit, yet still, to no avail. The hunger grew, striking with devastating need through every cell of her body, while fulfillment remained just out of reach.

A wild, needy groan tore from her throat as she collapsed against the bed in exhaustion long minutes later. The cream frothed between her thighs, so wickedly hot she felt each bone and muscle was on fire from the longing inside her. Yet, she lay there, frustrated, unable to climax, and burning with anger.

“Damn man.” She pushed herself from the bed, grimacing at the untidy state of the silk sheets she had slept between.

She kicked the comforter out of her way as she stalked to the closet and opened it furiously. She was tired of waiting. She had played nice for a week now. The perfect little houseguest, never overstepping her boundaries, flirting to no avail, and wandering about the huge mansion in complete boredom as he made himself scarce.

She pouted as she pulled a short skirt from the closet and matched it with a small top. The stark white, barely decent skirt flared from the low hip band, covering the curves of her ass and swishing sensually along her upper thighs. It bared the flesh of her stomach from the snug, high hem of her white Grecian-style top to only inches above the throbbing, swollen tissue of her clit.

The emerald belly ring winked wickedly at her navel, a glittering earthy teardrop against her dark flesh. She shook her head, running her fingers through the wavy length of her long, dark hair before flipping it over her shoulder, a small shiver chasing up her spine as the curling ends caressed her lower back.

She felt decadent, sexy and wild. And she looked it.

“Take that, Mr. Sinclair,” she whispered with a sensual little smile as she pushed her feet into the white stiletto heels.

She was tired of trying to be good. Of feeling her way among the strangers he introduced her to, yet paying close attention to those he steered her away from. She knew the women he would prefer she not associate with. Tally Conover, Kimberly Raddington especially, and Tessa Andrews and her mother Ella Wyman. Wives of now married Trojans, she had been told by one chatty little guest at the latest party she had attended. The Trojans, of course, being the nickname given to the men who frequented The Club.

Ivy, the daughter of Ian’s housemaid, had been at first hesitant to discuss The Club, its members or their wives. It had taken a vow of utmost secrecy and several drinks to get the information out of the woman. That those wives Ian steered her away from were considered the most adventurous, daring women to have ever married one of the men.

They were habitually tormenting Ian by sneaking into the club, attempting their matchmaking wiles on the single members and generally causing havoc whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was Ivy’s opinion they did so merely to tempt the overly dominant personalities of their husbands.

Those were the women Courtney wanted to talk to. The ones who knew Ian, who were intimate with the Trojans, their lifestyles and the rumors. But first—she moved carefully down the spiral staircase, listening for signs of movement as she stepped into the foyer and headed to the back of the house—she wanted to see The Club itself.

She had noticed the vehicles arriving earlier, parking along the back of the estate near the rear entrance that led to the rooms reserved for The Club’s membership. Ian had left explicit orders that the far wing was off-limits to her, and that she should confine herself to the main portion of the house.

Yes. She would do such a thing, she thought with an inelegant, little snort.

She moved quietly to the back of the foyer, to the door beneath the stairs. Turning the knob, she opened it carefully before stepping inside. The hall was well lit, carpeted with a thick, rich cream carpet that muffled the sound of her steps as she headed along the corridor.

She refused to sneak. She squared her shoulders, raised her head and moved along the hallway with the supreme confidence of someone who knows where she belongs. She belonged here. And if Ian were behind those closed double doors ahead, then she would fight anyone who dared attempt to deter her.

She opened the doors without a care, stepping into the marble foyer that held the entrance to the back of the house. As she closed it behind her, Matthew Harding, who had been introduced at a recent party, stepped from a small office at the side of the room.

His hazel eyes immediately darkened as his dark brows snapped into a frown. He was well over six feet tall, broad, muscular. He was ex-military, she guessed. He held his shoulders back, his body straight and ready to move at a moment’s notice.

“Hello, Matthew.” She allowed a small, devilish smile to tilt her lips as she moved confidently for the set of doors that she assumed led to The Club’s main rooms.

“Miss Mattlaw.” He stepped quickly in front of the doors. “Have you lost your way, ma’am?”

She lifted a brow as he blocked the doors, her eyes narrowing enough to allow him a warning that she wouldn’t be barred from the rooms.

“No, I haven’t.” Ice tipped her voice. “I know exactly where I want to go.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning deeper.

“These rooms are off-limits to you, ma’am. I think you were already informed that the back of the house is no place for you to be. If you wish to visit, then Mr. Sinclair will have to accompany you.”

Luck was a mercurial suitor. Some days she had it in spades, others, it eluded her entirely. This evening, it seemed to be on its best behavior. The doors opened wide, causing his attention to fracture and give her the opening she needed to slip into the room.

She glanced behind her, smiling innocently at the irate butler and the more than surprised club member as he stared back at her.

She stepped inside the ornately decorated room, her gaze flickering over the heavy chairs and dark tables. It reminded her quite a bit of her father’s study. Shelves lined the inner wall, stacked with books and erotic statuettes. A fireplace flickered merrily on one end of the room, while banks of windows looked out on a heated pool and Jacuzzi.

Several seating arrangements were scattered about the ballroom-sized room, as well as tables and areas of privacy. The bar graced the far end with a wealth of bottles lined up along the wall.

Ahh, yes. This was where she needed to be. She paused at the mahogany bar, glancing over her shoulder to meet the astounded gazes of the dozen or so men now watching her before turning back to the bartender.

“Club members only.”

She nearly sighed as the burly, savage-featured bartender watched her with chilling politeness. Men were such aggravating creatures at times.

“Perhaps I’m a guest?” She lifted a brow mockingly.

His lips twitched but of course, the smile did not make its appearance. Ian must be instructing them on how to make her life miserable, she decided.

“It’s a men’s club, Miss Mattlaw,” he said coolly before flickering a suggestive glance at the gentleman sitting two stools down, or perhaps hinting at a fellow conspirator.

She turned to survey the other man. Wicked, wicked blue eyes were filled with laughter, while thick black hair framed an outrageously handsome face.

“Ian is such an old fuddy-duddy.” She rolled her eyes with practiced charm. “Could I convince you to buy me a drink? It seems he’s already effectively tied my hands where such matters are concerned.”

A black brow lifted slowly as his gaze flickered to her wrists. “Not yet he hasn’t,” he said before turning to Thom. “Give the lady a drink.”

Thom grimaced good-naturedly. “Long as it’s your ass rather than mine, Cole.” He turned back to her then. “Hurry with your order, darlin’. My guess is that Matthew has already called Ian. I’ll give him a flat five more minutes before he arrives.”

“Jack on the rocks then,” she sighed, propping her chin in her hand as she leaned against the bar, well aware the skirt was edging indecent on the backs of her thighs.

The drink was delivered within seconds.

Turning, Courtney lifted the drink to her lips and stared back at the gazes trained on her. A subtle salute, a curl of her lips, before she took a healthy swallow of the fine whisky.

The bite and burn tore into her belly, causing her to close her eyes at the sensations it evoked. A pleasure, a pain. She hummed her enjoyment, feeling the room heat up drastically as several curses whispered through the room.

“Ian isn’t going to happy to see you here, Miss Mattlaw,” Cole, her savior, informed her humorously.

Courtney opened her eyes, turning to slant him a curious look. He was wearing a wedding band. A thick, obvious stamp of ownership. Trojans might share their women, but they never touched other females. He was safe.

“Perhaps Ian’s pleasure in this small area isn’t high on my list of priorities,” she suggested archly.

Suspicion filled the dark blue eyes. “What areas interest you?”

“In Ian’s pleasure?” she asked curiously. “Why would you care?”

“Ian’s a friend.” He shrugged muscled shoulders carelessly. “And you don’t appear to be the sweet little virgin he warned us all against.”

Her brows snapped into a frown. “He warned you against me? In what manner?”

“In the manner that if they touch you.” He nodded to the men still watching curiously. “They don’t just lose membership, they lose vital body parts.”

He was laughing. It was obvious he found it all highly entertaining.

“And he did such a thing for what reason?” Not that she had any designs on the other men, but the fact that he would do so irked her feminine pride.

“Virgins are endangered species,” he lowered his voice, though it still vibrated with laughter.

“Virgin?” She threw back the rest of her drink before smacking it back to the bar. “I would have never guessed Ian was a virgin. My, my, who was that I saw fucking the housemaids while he stayed on the estate? I should discuss this with him. Rumors can be so cruel.”

Chuckles echoed through the room.

“I gather the virgin isn’t you?” He sat back in his stool, watching her intently as his hand drummed idly, silently against the bar.

Slowly, she spread her arms, well aware of the wickedness of the outfit and the soft sheen of silky bare flesh.

“I hardly think so.” She smiled slowly. “Virginity is such a chore. One is never allowed to have any fun when her daddy believes such a heinous thing. But, when Daddy is happy, life is much better.”

“So what Daddy doesn’t know, doesn’t affect the little non-virgin’s life?” he asked with a hint of mockery.

“Exactly.” She shot Thom a disgruntled look as she turned from Cole. “You are not a very effective bartender. My glass is still empty.”

Thom looked to Cole, as though asking permission. What happened to Trojans being dominant, alpha, take-charge men? She was about to become very disappointed in them.

Courtney barely restrained her exasperated sigh.

“My glass is empty, Thom,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, and Ian’s most likely on his way,” he grunted. “You’ve had your limit, ma’am.”

She would have pouted if she thought it would do her any good. Instead, she allowed a small smile to cross her lips, the one that should have warned him that her day was coming.

“Fine. Ian has a perfectly outfitted bar upstairs. I merely assumed the company was much more interesting here. I heard the Trojans were a bit more adventurous than it appears they are.”

“Being adventurous and having a death wish are two different things,” Cole reminded her as she stood from the stool and stepped down from the small dais the bar sat upon before turning for the door.

She watched suspiciously as one of the men at the table closest to her pushed his bottle of whisky across the table in invitation. He lounged back in his chair, lazily relaxed, his black eyes curious as he watched her.