Room Twenty-Eight: Her Beautiful Surrender, page 1
Room Twenty-Eight
HER BEAUTIFUL SURRENDER
CLUB SIN: NEW ORLEANS
KL DONN
Contents
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Synopsis
Prologue
1. Asta
2. Diesel
3. Diesel
4. Major
5. Asta
6. Asta
7. Major
8. Asta
9. Asta
10. Diesel
Epilogue
Club Sin: New Orleans
About the Author
Also by KL Donn
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Copyright © 2023 by KL Donn
Room Twenty-Eight
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Editing by KA Matthews
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Synopsis
The Louisiana Black Bears has been our life our entire NHL career. We play hard, we hit hard, and we fuck harder.
So when we’re introduced to Club Sin NOLA, we immediately sign up to play in the darkest room the club offers…
Room Twenty-Eight.
With one intention: sharing a woman who has no idea she’ll be getting all three of us.
What we don’t expect is the obsession that overtakes us from the very first touch.
I’ve been dying to lose my virginity in the most scandalous way for over a year now. I never told anyone because it’s my darkest secret.
Surely, I’d be shunned for even mentioning it to a single soul.
So I’ve kept it locked up tight until I accidentally came across an ad for Club Sin in New Orleans.
Before I can chicken out, I’m on my way to Room Twenty-Eight and the most exhilarating night of my life.
I give them my heart…
Diesel Liberty: The burly defenseman with a passion for making me scream.
Colton Hall: The sweet center who holds his heart on his sleeve.
Major Reeves: The stern goalie who can make me squirm like nobody’s business.
…they give me theirs.
What could possibly go wrong?
Dedication
For my own sperm donor…
For the abandonment issues and trust issues and the general daddy issues…
Thanks for making it easy to write about shitty dads.
Prologue
ASTA
A heat wave has hit New York, and as I lie in my bed in my stuffy bachelorette apartment, window open, fans on, I’m ready to jump in the Hudson River just to cool down. Today was one of the rare days off that I’ve had in what feels like forever, from blogging and the coffee bar I work at around the corner on Canal Street.
Blogging is my passion. I adore traveling to haunted locations and taking videos and photographs, talking about my experiences, and posting articles online to my website, Asta’s Not-So-Secret Diary—the name seemed cute two years ago when I started it.
At first, it was mostly me filming and talking to myself. I had a few friends follow me, and they told their friends, but then I did a tour of the Amityville House. The Long Island mansion is famous for its grisly murders, and everyone is still quite fascinated by it, so once my post went live, I started getting requests to do tours of other places, and they would sponsor me. My posts are then highlighted on websites for each location I explore, and I’m making some decent money now. I’ve even been asked to visit New Orleans for the St. Louis Haunted Cemetery Walking tour in a month. Which is why I’m now up and unable to sleep.
While researching other activities in the area, I came upon a website for a place called Club Sin: New Orleans. I didn’t realize what it was at first. Labeling it a sex club seems too tame for what they do there, but sex most certainly happens. And the crazy thing is, they have a room specific to a repressed longing I’ve had for years. One I’ve never spoken of and had hesitated in inquiring about. I’m certain whoever answers my request will think I’m nuts. Because I want to do it. I want to book the room…have that experience, but I also want to write an article about the club, afterwards; something I can submit to them for approval first. About my experience, not just in the room but in the club in general. About their location, the history of the old plantation house they’ve renovated and turned into a stunning backdrop for fantasies to come to life.
Never in a million years did I imagine I would get the opportunity to explore a hidden desire. To act out a filthy, unethical dream that lives and breathes inside of me.
At twenty years old, I’m still a virgin. Untouched in any way by a boy or man because I was raised in a Catholic orphanage upstate. My mother didn’t want to take care of me, and my father deemed me a bastard and has never wanted anything to do with me.
The sisters would be clutching their pearls if they knew just how much I yearned for pleasure to be forced upon me. And my brother, the famous hockey player, the one I didn’t know existed until he found me two years ago, would be filled with shame if he knew just how much I wanted a man bigger than me, stronger than me, to wrest his way between my thighs.
If anyone ever found out, I’d be shunned from everything I know.
That alone should make me walk away from this club; instead, I hope they’ll accept my offer.
ONE
Asta
ONE MONTH LATER.
New Orleans, in a word, is stunning. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Not that I’ve seen a whole lot of anything, but I like to think the places I tour have shown me a thing or two. But nothing like NOLA.
I have this weekend to explore as many places as possible, which is not nearly enough for me, and will likely only include lunch in the French Quarter with my NHL hot-shot brother, which is where I’m headed now, the St. Louis Cemetery tour at dusk, my night at Club Sin—a shiver races down my spine at the prospect—and finally, the hockey game between my brother’s team and the Louisiana team. Apparently, it’s quite the rivalry between some of the players.
The crown jewel of New Orleans welcomes me with robust laughter, delicious-smelling food, buildings that exhibit a beautiful mix of French Creole and Greek Revival architecture, and daring acts of love and life. Immediately, I feel like I’ve stepped back in time when I come to a stop in the middle of a street as a horse-drawn carriage trots along the brick road.
It’s barely noon, and already it appears as though life is in full swing as people spill in and out of restaurants and shops. Talking, laughing, smoking things that would have the nuns back home crossing themselves. I’m utterly entranced and surrounded by the beauty I’ve dreamed of in the world.
“If you like it now, you should be here for Mardi Gras.” Spinning, I jump into my older brother Leon’s arms. “Missed you, too, squirt.”
Squeezing his neck tight, I don’t want to let go. “You told me you’d be late.”
“Wanted to surprise you. Plus, some of the guys came along; hope you don’t mind.” He winks with a wicked grin. Depending on who it is, I ordinarily don’t, but there are a couple of guys on the team I don’t particularly care for—Chad Baker being the main one. A quick glance shows he isn’t here.
“Of course not!” I accept cheek kisses from three of his teammates as they lead us down the street towards Port of Call. The smell of their burgers grilling has my mouth salivating with the need to chomp into one.
“You’re drooling,” Leon teases.
“Shut up.” I slap his hand away when he lifts my chin to shut my mouth. I see a fortune teller a few doors down and know I have to see her before I leave for my tour.
“So, kid, what else are you doing while you’re here?” Andrew asks. He’s one of the older guys on the team and sweet as a button…unless you’re on the ice with him, then he’ll flick you across the frigid surface without a care in the world.
“Cemetery tour, fortune-telling, might hit a club.” I don’t mention what kind. I’m just the innocent kid sister of their star centerman, and we all want to keep it that way.
“A club, you say?” Rookie defenseman Slater Mercy flirts with me because he knows it gets Leon’s back up, which is proven a second later when my brother shoves him right out of his chair.
As the guys bust each other’s balls, I take the time to let my eyes wander around the Quarter until they land on a set of men that steal my breath away. If sex had a definition, it would be the three of them. Running on the other side of the street, each wearing a pair of dark shorts, no shirts, and water bottles attached to a belt around their waists. I’ve seen it hundreds of times back at home in New York, but I’ve never felt like my panties were melting right off my body.
The one in the middle—have mercy—he is huge, with dark chocolate hair that’s just a little too long but suits him. It’s thick and wavy and makes me want to run my fingers through it. He has a scar on his chin that I want to lick, and please, don’t get me started on the bulging arm muscles and the fact that h
Ignoring the blush staining my cheeks, my eyes move to the guy on the other side of him, farthest from me. He’s got close-cropped, short blond hair with a week’s worth of scruff on his sharp jawline. Tattoos cover most of his chest, and I’d love to see more of them, especially when I notice they glide down into a sleeve on his arm. He has the thickest thighs of all three of them, and I can only imagine how powerful they are as he moves, how strong he could thrust in and out of a willing woman. He notices where the first man is looking, and our eyes meet. I get lost in the deep pools of blue until my chair is jostled by the guys I’m with, goofing off.
Moving on to the final man, I notice I’ve captured his attention already. He’s the perfect mix of light and dark from the other two. Dark brownish-blonde hair, light green eyes, clean-shaven, tattoos on his legs, and a scar on his belly that I’d love to know more about. As my gaze peruses his body, I feel my nipples perk up and beg for their attention, which is ridiculous because I can’t be attracted to three men at once. There’s no way. It’s forbidden and unethical, and I’m quite certain they’d never go for a nerdy girl like me. It’s been proven time and time again at home that I’m just not what guys are interested in. It’s why I’m literally paying someone to take my virginity tonight.
With one last glance at the three handsome men, I turn back around just as Slater wraps an arm around my shoulder and whispers in my ear to get Leon pissed off again.
“You coming to my room tonight, sweetheart?” I cringe at the invite; I’m never sure if he’s serious or not.
“Touch her, and I’ll knock your ass out. You won’t need to wait on Diesel Liberty to take your ass down,” Leon threatens. I frown at the use of the name, assuming he’s a player for the Black Bears.
As our food is brought to the table, the guys continue bashing each other and cracking dirty jokes. It’s a little like being inside the locker room because they look at me as I am—Leon’s little sister. For the most part, I enjoy watching the camaraderie and brotherhood that links them through professional hockey, but I’m so distracted by those other three men and find it hard to concentrate on anything being said.
“Asta?” Leon’s worried tone drags me back to the present.
“Yeah?” I force a smile at him.
“Where were you just now?” His head cocks quizzically.
I shrug. “Just thinking about the cemetery tour.” The lie falls easily from my lips.
“You sure you want to do that alone?” He turns more fully to face me and blocks out the others. Since meeting Leon a couple of years ago, he’s always had this protective streak. As much as I feared getting to know him then, he quickly eased my concerns with how much he genuinely cares and is nothing like our father.
“Positive. I enjoy doing them alone because then my reactions are genuine and not stifled because I’m with people I know.” There’s been more than one haunted place that has sent my heart racing and a scream bubbling up from my lips.
“I don’t like you out there alone,” he grumbles.
A chuckle escapes. “I won’t be. I’ll have a small group of others and the tour guides.” His lips thin, still not happy about it. “I’ll text you as soon as I leave and then when I get back to my hotel.” I don’t mention that I’ll only be at my hotel long enough to shower and collect a small bag for my night at Club Sin.
“You’re still coming to the game tomorrow, right?” I don’t understand hockey, so he’s always worried I’ll flake out.
“Of course. I brought my jersey and everything!” It was one of the first things Leon gave me when I grew comfortable enough to spend more time with him and accept his invitations. I go to nearly every home game and always wear his name and number. I don’t expect that to ever change.
Checking the time on my Apple watch, I wince. “I’ve got to get going so I don’t miss my time. I’ll talk to you later?” I’m rushing to pull cash from my pocket when he puts his hand over mine.
“I got this. Go have fun; tell me about it tonight.” Smiling, I lean down to kiss his cheek before waving my goodbyes and rushing off to hail a taxi.
“Welcome to St. Louis Cemetery Number One. My name is Rhonda, and I’ll be your walking guide this evening. Before we begin, let me give you just a few quick facts for reference.” Rhonda is attired in what can only be described as a sixteenth-century torture dress with how tight the white corset cinches her body. How does she even breathe in that thing?
“SLC No. 1 was established in 1789 and is one of the oldest existing cemeteries in New Orleans. Originally built as a temporary burial site, the Spanish Royals decreed its permanency that same year. It was only in 1975 that this cemetery was declared a historical site of significance by the National Register. To date, you can still be buried in the cemetery, and one of our most famous residents is the Vodou queen Marie Laveau.” She continues on with other facts I’ve already learned as she begins walking.
For as close to the streets as we are, the noise of traffic and pedestrians is blocked out by the thick brick walls, tall tombstones, and mystique offered from just being here.
There are many reasons to be creeped out in a place like this, but I’m utterly fascinated by my experience. I have a tiny video camera attached to the button of my coat so my viewers can come along. I’ll edit it down to give them eerie glimpses and be enticed to come for a tour themselves.
My equipment bag hangs heavy on my shoulder as I wait for the perfect moment to capture an image while the sun begins setting. A fog brews over the grass and stone paths, giving off an ethereal vibe as I crouch down low to snap an image of a tombstone of an infant who lived too short a life.
As we move along, Rhonda tells us about some of the more famous burials before recounting some of the forgotten. Spooky sounds permeate the air: a squeaky gate, leaves rustling, the whistling wind. If not for the hair on the nape of my neck standing on end, I’d think it was manufactured to make the tour creepier.
Hanging back from the group, I close my eyes and allow myself to absorb the atmosphere around me. Absorb the suffering from the tragic deaths brought on by great fires or an epidemic.
A shiver races up my spine as a draft invades my bones. It feels warm but cool at the same time. Scared but peaceful. Lifting my camera, I slowly open my eyes and begin taking photos, turning in a steady circle so I capture every angle of the moment I just encountered.
Taking a few steps off the path the tour group is using, I take a few angled shots of tombs that appear to be crumbling, giving off an eerie effect of death and decay. The sorrow I feel as I read the dates on some of the tombs is nearly overwhelming as I slowly catch up with everyone.
Rhonda is still talking about the history when I hear a peal of childlike laughter that gives me pause, and I smile. It’s carefree and happy. I’ve always dreamed of having my own family one day, but I know it’ll most likely never happen. I’ve never met anyone who made me feel like I could give them my heart, let alone my body.
By the time we reach the end of the tour, storm clouds have rolled in to hide the remainder of the sunlight, and a gentle sprinkle of rain has begun. Catching a cab back to my hotel, I grab a snack from the little store in the lobby while texting Leon as promised to let him know I’m safe and sound.
The elevator ride up to my fourth-floor room is silent as I flick through some images on my camera. I’m not paying attention to my surroundings as I depart the car, and by the time I reach my room, swipe my card to open the door, and enter, I have no idea someone has followed me.
