Be My Fantasy: The Fantasy Series, #1

By Alisha Rai

When she was bad, she was better. 

Elizabeth Harding, the perfect, polished daughter of politicians, plays by all the rules. Or so it seems. Tired of a lifetime of denying her passionate nature, she’s created an alter ego. As Tess, Elizabeth is able to safely and secretly indulge all of her wild fantasies—even if that fantasy is financing a private club of pleasure. 

Driven and ambitious, Luca Santos has clawed his way from rags to riches. His boss’s daughter has tempted him for what seems like forever, but he’s known that the pampered princess probably wouldn’t be down with his dirty ways. Elizabeth is sweet, innocent, demure…so what’s she doing sneaking around a place that revels in sexual abandon? 

One night. So many ways to ruin a person.  
 

The Club Prestige Collection 

Bad King by M. Malone  

Tempting in Stilettos by Nana Malone 

Be My Fantasy by Alisha Rai  

Enthrall by Victoria H. Smith  

Shaken by Ursula Sinclair 

• Language: English
• Publisher: alisha rai
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533740229

Alisha Rai

Alisha Rai pens award-winning contemporary romances, and her novels have been named Best Books of the Year by the Washington Post, NPR, Amazon, Entertainment Weekly, Kirkus, and Cosmopolitan magazine. When she’s not writing, Alisha is traveling or tweeting. To find out more about her books or to sign up for her newsletter, visit alisharai.com.  

Book preview

1

Asigh punctured the silence . Elizabeth Harding picked up her glass with a shaking hand and took a sip of her scotch, letting the smoky liquid linger on her tongue. She didn’t bother to glance around the dark place. She wouldn’t be able to see who had made the noise, which was exactly how it should be. Six booths were constructed around the raised dais in the center of the room, high privacy screens concealing the identities of other guests.

Club Prestige, the newest, most exclusive and expensive private club in the District of Columbia, had already gained a reputation for discretion. This room, reserved only for a select, vetted few who desired something extra? Well. It was a cone of silence up in here.

Elizabeth crossed her legs, snug denim restricting her movement. She hadn’t been able to sneak away to the club for a while, and she was so accustomed to her usual garb of modest dresses and skirts that the compression of skinny jeans felt foreign. Oh, but so damn good.

A couple stood on the stage. The man was conventionally attractive, his boxer’s build dressed in a tailored black suit. The delicate brunette in front of him wore only a gossamer-thin shift that fell to the top of her thighs, the white cotton so sheer, Elizabeth could see the woman’s light pink nipples as well as the triangle of her thong.

The woman was docile as the man slowly slid the straps off her shoulders, revealing pert, round breasts. His fingers were large and powerful, clenching the fragile fabric. The spotlight gleamed on his shaved head as he lowered it. The kiss on her neck was loving. Sweet, even. Perhaps oddly sweet, given that the man was baring her body to an enraptured audience.

Elizabeth took another drink of her scotch, though it couldn’t satisfy her thirst. Not for the first time, she was grateful that there was always a booth reserved for her in this room.

It was the least the club could do for her, seeing as how it was her money that had financed the place.

When her old childhood friend, Olivia Reyes, had come to her and said she and some friends were looking for a silent investor, Elizabeth had been wary. So many people were constantly asking her for money. She’d always liked Olivia, though, which was a rarity in the wealthy circles they’d grown up in. Plus, once Olivia had explained the concept—a private club of decadence, run exclusively by women—Elizabeth hadn’t been able to whip out her checkbook fast enough.

She didn’t care about the day-to-day business of the enterprise, though she kept tabs on the bottom line and everyone involved, the way a good investor should. She’d only asked for this: a room where fantasies could be explored. The fantasies of the people watching and the people performing.

Elizabeth cradled her glass. The woman on the stage cried out as the man ran his fingers over one nipple, then the other. She was at his mercy. That was the theme of the Fantasy Room tonight: At His Mercy.

The performer’s names were Ken and Angel. They both stripped in the club regularly, casually dated each other, and had requested to star in shows in this room.

Elizabeth stared, choosing to let herself forget all about their true identities. For now, they were an anonymous couple, ready to be objectified for her visual pleasure. That was their fantasy, and hers as well.

The man on the stage pressed his hand against the woman’s belly, then, in a swift move, shoved the shift down over her hips. She held still for him so the audience could look their fill of her sculpted legs and high breasts, her thong covering her vagina from view.

Her hands fluttered, like delicate birds, one finally resting over her breast. He knocked her hand aside in a swift, decisive movement, making her and Elizabeth inhale.

Elizabeth sat forward, her breathing increased, her nipples hard, the place between her legs wet with need, but it would take an observant person to know anything was amiss with her. She was that good at creating a façade. Smokescreens were her specialty.

Only I pleasure you, said the man in a menacing whisper.

At her nod, the man returned to fondling her. He pressed his knee between her legs, widening them, and slid his hand inside her tiny panties. His hand moved under the fabric, his fingers fucking her lazily, the small scrap not hiding anything.

Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed, an ache rising deep inside her, a familiar restlessness. Christ, it had been too long since she’d felt anyone’s hands on her. Like a pressure cooker left on high, her valve had to be occasionally released.

Elizabeth grimaced. Finding someone to release it wasn’t always simple, especially here in her hometown. Her satisfaction was usually found in secretive affairs. Life was easier that way.

The man wrapped his hand around the woman’s hair and pulled her head back, pressing his lips to her neck. Who do you belong to? he breathed.

You, she responded.

The muscles in his arm flexed, and she cried out, standing on her tiptoes. Despite her dismayed noise, he withdrew his hand from her panties. From where she sat, Elizabeth imagined she could see the wetness on his fingers.

He spun the woman around so she faced him. His thumb traced the crease of her buttocks, where the string of her thong did little to hide her firm ass. Show me, he demanded. On your knees.

The lights went out, and a rustle came from one of the other guests, like he might be gathering his belongings to leave. Elizabeth smirked, assuming it must be the new guy she’d approved on Monday, a widowed neurologist who might become Surgeon General someday. Oh the sweet summer child. Did he not know? The show was hardly over.

Weak flashlight beams flickered on and off quickly, coasting over the bodies, giving snapshots of sin.

Plausible deniability. They didn’t run sex shows. They were performers performing. Except the performers dictated what they’d do and not do. Most of them did whatever the hell they wanted under the cover of darkness.

Flash.

The curve of the woman’s spine and ass as she knelt in her heels.

Flash.

The man’s hand, clenched tight in her curly hair.

Flash.

Her head bobbing over his lap.

Flash.

The tendons of his neck standing out in relief.

Elizabeth ran her fingers over her mouth as he whispered filthy, dirty orders to the woman on her knees in front of him. Words like harder, faster, take me deeper. Words that told her exactly what to do and took away all decision-making.

Words that freed her.

The sound of flesh moving over wet flesh came from the stage, and his groans grew louder, captured by the walls of the soundproofed room.

The flashlight beams went out completely as he climaxed, taking the couple out of view. There was a slight beat, and then the woman cried out in pleasure.

Such a good girl, the man rasped. Now open your legs and let me give you your reward.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, because she knew this would be in utter darkness. Angel preferred not to orgasm in front of viewers, but she loved it when everyone heard her.

She drew in the sounds of ripping fabric—the thong torn away, she assumed—and the woman’s escalating cries as the man saw to her pleasure. With his fingers? His tongue?

He groaned, the sound muffled. Probably by the woman’s sex.

Elizabeth imagined the scene. His tongue buried deep inside, flicking against her clit, rubbing against that spot that made her want to die from pleasure.

Elizabeth crossed her legs tighter, the throbbing ache in her pussy killing her. If she wanted, she knew she could have Ken take care of her. Ken had a particular reputation for happily hooking up with any person who wanted him, anonymously and safely.

But she had no specific need for Ken, and it wasn’t worth calling attention to herself by fraternizing with an employee. She’d ring up some friends soon, maybe on the West Coast.

The woman was climaxing, and the man growled against her flesh like an animal. She gave a high-pitched scream, and Elizabeth inhaled, drawing the sound into her soul, letting it fill her darkest desires.

How she loved it.

Silence reigned, the pitch black of the room complete. There was no indication that the performers had left, but she knew when they’d slipped away.

The other people in the booths shuffled out, enough space between them to make sure they didn’t run into each other in the hallway. She waited.

The knock came on the back of her booth, and she took a deep breath, wrapping the tattered remains of her composure around her. She checked that her wig was on properly and stood,