Chapter 186: Voyuer Wellness Center

The Voyeur Wellness Center looked exactly like what would happen if modern architecture had sex with discretion and their baby was raised by money. Black geometric angles jutted into the sky, sharp lines stacked in impossible symmetry.

Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the structure, revealing light but no secrets, while warm recessed strips glowed along its edges like a halo for the damned.

A wide staircase climbed one side, lit subtly as if each step was designed to say

exclusive, not accessible.

Palm trees and minimalist landscaping framed the entrance, the whole thing screaming precision and wealth.

The parking lot didn’t just confirm it—it flaunted it.

Bentleys, Maseratis, a fucking Bugatti. These weren’t desperate housewives. These were desperate millionaire billionaire wives.

ARIA’s research had been thorough, but seeing it in person hit different. This wasn’t some seedy massage parlor with happy endings. This was where the one percent came to scratch itches their hedge fund husbands couldn’t reach.

I’d shifted to Eros form in Madison’s car, watching her pupils dilate as my features sharpened, my presence intensified. She’d kissed me goodbye with enough heat to fog the windows, whispering;

"Go get ’em, tiger" against my lips.

Now, standing at the entrance in my Tom Ford suit that fit my enhanced form like liquid sin, I saw her.

Warm recessed lighting runs along the edges of the overhangs, creating a clean, glowing outline against the dark exterior. A wide staircase leads up one side to the second level, while palm trees and minimalist landscaping accent the front.

The manager was already waiting outside, and fuck me if she wasn’t sin sculpted into flesh. Tall enough that her legs seemed carved to outlast the horizon, poured into a gown that clung like it had been painted on.

She was wearing a sparkling, strapless dress that highlights her bust and cleavage, drawing attention to her upper torso. The dress’s cut also showcases a defined, toned midsection, while the fabric clings to her hips, suggesting a shapely figure.

Midnight fabric shimmered against her skin, catching the light with every subtle movement, daring me to imagine what it concealed—though

conceal

wasn’t the right word.

Her breasts were incredibly big and strained against the glittering bodice, the kind of perfect orbs that no architect or surgeon could ever claim credit for, only the gods of temptation themselves with her nipples poking out. I had never seen breast this white and big. They were round too and reached just where her armpits began, with a small but minimal bridge among her perfect sinful mounds.

Her waist was a study in geometry, impossibly narrow before curving into hips that should’ve come with warning labels. She was slim that if not for her flame defying physics she would have been pulled down by gravity by her bid mound. Her exposed waist connected to the toned midsection were inviting me to birth it with my kisses alone before they disappeared in her lower garment that barely concealed her long and juicy thigh I could see thanks to the long slit.

But it was her ass that broke another record, round too. She was a perfect sculpture with a proud upside, slim and sexy in the middle and then another round package of her round ass and juicy hips.

Just to sum it up.

’Nineteen. Proud of it. And looking at me like I was already hers to unwrap.’

She didn’t breathe as I closed the distance, her composure shattering in increments: a flicker in her eyes, the parted lips, the way her hand tightened against the sofa’s cushion as though it might steady her pulse.

"You’re not real," she whispered, gaze tracing me like I was a forbidden indulgence, her tongue nearly darting to wet her lips before she remembered herself.

"Yeah?" My grin curled slow, predatory. "I get that a lot. But I’ll warn you now—I’m the kind of fantasy that sticks. You’ll never shake me once I’m in your system." I stepped in close, just enough for her perfume—dark flowers, smoke, sin—to coil around me like a promise. "So I suggest you get used to it."

Her chest rose faster, diamonds at her throat trembling with each inhale. For a flicker of a moment, I could see the battle between her role as gatekeeper of this decadent sanctuary and the raw, animal desire clawing at the surface.

"Hot," she managed finally, voice velvet over steel. "Have your way with words... and confidence too." She straightened her spine, though the effort only made her cleavage rise higher, the gown shifting like it might surrender. "Let’s see if your interview is half as good as your entrance."

"Lead the way, Ms...?"

Her lips curved, half-daring, half-sin. "Victoria. Victoria Sinclair. Though something tells me you already knew that."

’Caught. And she loves it.’

"I do my research," I said, following as she turned, her hips swaying like pendulums designed to test a man’s patience. The gown’s slit rode high enough to tease, to promise, to demand. "A place like this doesn’t hire just anyone. Neither do I work for just anyone."

She glanced back, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. "Oh? And what makes you think we’re hiring you? The interview hasn’t even started."

"Because you haven’t looked away from me once since I arrived," I said simply. "Because your breathing changed the moment you saw me. Because you’re already imagining how your clients will react when they meet me."

We’d entered a private elevator, all mirrors and soft lighting. She pressed the button for the top floor, then turned to face me fully.

"Arrogant," she observed, but her voice had dropped an octave.

"Accurate," I corrected. "There’s a difference."

The elevator rose smoothly, and I could feel the weight of her assessment. She was cataloging everything—the way I stood, how I occupied space, the careful balance of danger and safety I projected.

"Tell me something, Eros," she said, using my application name like she was tasting it. "Why here? Someone who looks like you could model, act, have any career that pays in attention."

"Because attention isn’t what I’m after." I met her gaze directly. "I’m after satisfaction. Theirs and mine."

"And you think you can satisfy our clientele? Women who’ve had everything money can buy?"

"Everything except what they actually need," I said. "Money can’t buy genuine desire. It can’t purchase the feeling of being truly wanted, of being someone’s entire focus. That’s what I provide."

The elevator dinged softly, doors opening to reveal a hallway that belonged in a five-star hotel. Victoria stepped out first, her hips swaying with newfound purpose.

"The interview panel is through here," she said, leading me past closed doors that probably hid all sorts of interesting activities. "Three members, including myself. Fair warning—they’re going to test you."

"I’m counting on it."

She stopped at a set of double doors, hand on the handle. "One more thing. We have a very specific clientele here. Powerful women who are used to being in control everywhere except where it matters. Can you handle that?"

I stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Ms. Sinclair, I don’t just handle powerful women. I liberate them."

Her breath hitched. "We’ll see about that."

She opened the doors to reveal a conference room that looked more like a luxury lounge. Two other women sat at a curved table—one silver haired and sharp-featured, the other with eyes that had seen everything twice.

"Ladies," Victoria announced, her voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck, "may I present Eros Velmior Desiderion. Our ten o’clock interview."

’Showtime.’

I walked in like I owned the place, because confidence was nine-tenths of seduction and I was playing for keeps. The silver haired—late forties, Botox fighting a valiant battle against time—straightened in her chair. The other—mid-thirties, her hair was like expensive highlights—actually licked her lips.

"Please, have a seat," Victoria said, gesturing to a chair across from them.

I sat, managing to make even that look like foreplay. Three sets of eyes tracked every movement.

"So," the blonde started, voice trying for professional despite her obvious distraction, "tell us why you want to work at Voyeur."

’Because I’m building an empire of satisfied women and you’re going to help me do it. Because your clients are going to worship me. Because by the time I’m done, you’ll be begging to be my first appointment.’

"Because you offer something unique," I said instead, letting my voice drop to that register that made women lean in. "A safe space where powerful women can stop being powerful. Where they can just be women, with needs and desires and someone skilled enough to fulfill them."

"And you think you’re skilled enough?" the silver-haired asked, but she was already sold. I could see it in the way she kept touching her throat.

"I know I am." No arrogance, just fact. "But more importantly, I know that skill isn’t just about technique. It’s about reading people. Understanding what they need before they can articulate it. Being whatever version of myself will set them free."

"Whatever version?" Victoria had taken a seat, crossing her legs in a way that hiked her skirt up just enough. "How many versions are there?"

"As many as necessary." I leaned back, letting them look their fill. "The gentle lover for someone who needs tenderness. The dominant force for someone who needs to surrender. The student for someone who needs to teach. The teacher for someone who needs to learn."

"Interesting philosophy," the blonde murmured. "But we need more than philosophy. We need results."

"Then test me," I said simply. "Give me any scenario, any client profile, and I’ll show you exactly how I’d handle it."

The three women exchanged glances, some form of silent communication passing between them. Finally, Victoria smiled—the kind of smile that preceded very bad decisions.

"Alright, Eros. Let’s see what you can do."

’Hook, line, and sinker. Time to show them why I’m worth whatever they’re willing to pay.’

The interview was about to get very interesting.