Read Online Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) by Logan Belle - Free Book Online

brilliantly composed furniture and color scheme. She thought about how many celebrities had been to parties in this very apartment, perhaps sat in the chair that their host was now leaning on while being fucked in the ass while drooling over a ball gown, his cock in his hand.
    It was hard to recall the times when this had been fun for her. She knew she had once felt that way, but the memory was so intangible, it was like a dream hours after waking. Now all she felt was resentment. It was difficult to always be the one giving satisfaction, never receiving it. She thought maybe she had been on her way to some gratification the other night when Alec invited her to join Mallory and him for dinner. But then Mallory showed up with that sour look on her face. God, she’d love to shove this black rubber cock up her ass and loosen her up a little. But who was she kidding? If she got her hands on Mallory Dale, she’d forget all about her frustration and start eating that pussy like a kid in a candy store.
    “Mommy!” her client called out, as he always did when he came.
    Violet looked at her watch. Maybe she could call Alec and see if she could lure him out for coffee.
    Her client slumped over the chair, spent.
    “Thank you,” he said, breathless.
    “My pleasure, Mr. Barton,” she said.
    Time to clean up.
    She went to the bathroom, washed her hands, and repacked her bags. She didn’t feel the high she used to get from these encounters; she felt drained. It was so exhausting to always give and never receive any satisfaction.
    By the time she returned to the living room, her client was transformed from a sniveling sex slave to a media mogul. The entire countenance of his face was different, and he wore slacks, a jacket, and a green, blue, and pink-striped shirt she recognized from the window at Thomas Pink on Madison.
    Wordlessly, he slipped her three hundred-dollar bills.
    “See you next week,” she said.
    “One more thing,” he said. “One of my writers got comped for this show. It’s sold out and supposed to be phenomenal.” He handed her tickets to a Jack Terricloth show at Joe’s Pub.
    “Thanks. I love your connections,” she said, pocketing the tickets. “You know, you should own a club. Ever think about it?”
    “Not really,” he said. “Huge time suck, and few are profitable. I’ll stick to media domination.”
    She couldn’t help but smirk at the word “domination.” As a magazine editor he should have a better sense of irony. And for some reason, an image of Mallory flashed through her mind. “Suit yourself. But do you have one more ticket for this thing?”
    “No. My editor needs the other one to cover the show for the magazine.”
    “That’s a shame,” she said, holding out her hand. “You know, my schedule is really looking tight next week. I hope I can fit you in.”
    He handed over the ticket.
    Outside, she dialed her phone.
     
    Mallory grasped the barre with both hands, her right leg extended on top of the smooth horizontal pole, arching her foot. She brought her right arm up over her head, bent slightly at the elbow, her face turning slowly toward it as she arched her back and slid her leg forward on the bar, extending her body into a long stretch.
    In the reflection of the floor to ceiling mirror, she could see the ballet dancer behind her, Nadia. They split the cost to rent practice space at Ballet Academy once or twice a week. Nadia was hoping to land a spot with a major dance company so she could make a name for herself. Mallory doubted Nadia had any idea about the type of performing Mallory did—or that the name she was making for herself was “Moxie.” Although when Nadia saw Mallory working on her new routine to the Marilyn Manson song, “Heart-Shaped Glasses,” she would start to realize her practice space partner wasn’t training for The Nutcracker. Usually Mallory saved her choreography for practice at the Blue Angel, but lately she felt the need to get away from the other