Authors: Lana Grayson
“Have a good night, Morgan.”
He left without another word. I didn’t cover my flushed cheeks. They warmed on their own, a result of the either utter mortification, indignant rage, or a blood-boiling, belly twisting curiosity.
My hands trembled. Getting rejected was one thing, but Anthony’s
appraisal
was worse than anything my ex ever said. Hell, at least Ryan gave me the
you’re a nice girl, but we just aren’t clicking
speech.
But who was he to tell me where I did and didn’t belong? He didn’t know anything about me besides how alone I looked waiting for my friends who prioritized real life over a night out.
The women here knew better than to argue with him.
What did that even mean? What happened if they did argue with him?
The possibilities wrapped me in an endless shiver that hit every delicate area from my head to my toes. With my legs crossed, a delicious pressure pulsed between my thighs. Somehow my decency eroded away in a single night.
The sexy romance books were mainstream enough now—I knew exactly what Anthony was and the game he played. He was a walking, talking, tab-paying muscled specimen of testosterone, authority, and kink.
Since my previous sex life consisted of a movie at the cheap theater, a grope in the car, and unremarkable sex in a dorm room while Ryan’s roommate was at the library, Anthony was probably right. I didn’t belong here.
The sketchy guy in the corner of the club wandered my way. He fiddled with the pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt. I decided to wait for my car outside. A chirp from the bar stopped me. Anthony’s forgotten phone buzzed. An incoming text from someone named Simone.
Done yet?
Simone.
That
sounded like a woman who could call him away. Someone who probably gave him the same shivers that slammed me. But the message didn’t make sense. He didn’t like women arguing with him. The social ramifications of such a demand would send every sociology major I knew through the roof. But, if it were true, why would he let a woman text him in such a demanding manner?
I eyed the stairs. It was a brand new iPhone, and it didn’t feel right letting it get lost or stolen. Besides, I wasn’t above playing Good Samaritan to prove that some random stranger couldn’t measure my entire personality from a single drink at the bar.
I made it within arm’s length of the stairs before the bouncer blocked the path.
He wore a sharp, expensive suit and stood tall—not nearly as big as Anthony, but intimidating enough with a bald head and goatee. An earpiece tucked within his ear. Tight security for a single staircase. My insides shriveled under his stare.
“Going somewhere, miss?”
Now or never. I sucked in a breath and showed him the phone.
“Anthony left this.”
The bouncer looked me over. I hoped there weren’t a whole sea of Anthony’s floating around upstairs. I didn’t think to look through the phone to figure out his last name. Ignoring his advice was risky enough, but I wasn’t about to violate his privacy.
This was a stupid idea. I offered the phone to the bouncer, but he moved aside.
“Go on up,” he said.
Well, hell. I didn’t expect it to work. The stairs rose steep, and the glistening LEDs silhouetted me as I went up, shining like built-in sign proclaiming my perversion. I gripped the railing and took each step, waiting for it to collapse under me. The glance over the bar proved my fear wasn’t paranoia.
Every eye was on me.
Great. My heels were unsteady enough. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling on my face in front of all those people. I never used to mind crowds, but, lately, I liked to hide out in my apartment with my sweats and Netflix. I hoped no one recognized me.
My newest life goal—not to draw any unnecessary attention to myself.
I shifted the curtain aside. An empty hallway separated the noise of the bar from the happenings upstairs. I smoothed my dress and attempted to push my shoulders back, but my imagination weighted the air and pushed the narrow hall against me.
Fancy oil paintings hung on the walls. Most of the artwork were nudes, of course. I wondered who commissioned the work. Google Image Searches got pretty raunchy, but these paintings depicted either some seriously complicated Twister games or sexual positions beyond anything Ryan and I ever attempted.
I had taken six steps and I already regretted my decision.
The hall ended with a dark, ornate door. I considered knocking, except this place probably had an entirely different definition for solicitation. I also considered turning around and high-tailing it back to safety. I clutched at the phone. It was a club, not a prison. What was the worst that could happen?
A lot of things, but I wasn’t about to imagine it.
The VIPs lounge seemed to be an entirely different club, not cheap and trendy like the LED lit bar downstairs. Leather furniture and a grand fireplace organized part of the room into a comfortable sitting area. The cherry wood bar and walls framed an elegant, old-school smoking room. Classy, masculine, and far more yacht club than I expected. Still most yacht clubs didn’t employ a topless bartender.
Two women in lace bodysuits lounged across the lap of rather rotund man on the couch. In the corner, a masked man stood shackled, his ankle chained to a convenient hook in the wall. He stayed still, completely naked, and apparently excited about his predicament. A party raged beyond a second hallway, pressing further into the weirdness than I intended to wander.
I edged forward until a harsh crack echoed over the floor—the sound of leather connecting with flesh. A woman screamed. The party applauded.
And I thought ordering a peachtini made my Friday night wild. Duchess gave Stanley Kubrick and Tom Cruise a run for their money.
The bartender’s cocked an eyebrow at my presence, as if she weren’t the one serving drinks in a corset that didn’t conceal her breasts. Leaving the phone with her was the second best idea I had—getting the hell out of the freak show ranked first. His voice caught me before I took a single step.
“You don’t follow orders.”
My breath escaped with an
oof
, as if someone wrung out my lungs like a wet dishcloth.
Anthony’s gaze burned directly through me, an insulted look of immediate disapproval. I accidentally backed away, realizing all too late he pinned me against the wall with only a few words. I wore heels, but they did nothing.
Anthony’s shadow cast over me, his body obscuring my view of the club. Not only was he tall, every inch of him sculpted with muscle. The kind of strength bred from a deliberate attempt to intimidate. He didn’t need it. He possessed just as much strength in his stare, in the roughness of his voice, and in the ripples of displeasure.
I majorly fucked up.
He crossed his arms. His biceps tightened, even under the suit.
And then the inappropriate images flitted into my mind. Those powerful arms pressed against either side of me. His body trapping me between his solid chest and the wall. It was a good thought—a stirring, heavy thought—but one I didn’t need to have in a modern-day sex dungeon, no matter how many fish tanks or leather couches were stacked in the hall.
It was also a thought I didn’t need to have about a man who had no problem chastising a perfect stranger. His presence would have subdued the hard-ass police officer who nailed me for going 38 in a 35 last winter outside of campus.
And his
voice
. Just the threat I imagined behind those words drove a whimper to my lips. The wall offered me no protection.
Anthony stepped closer. Within arm’s reach. Another cry echoed from the party. More applause. He ignored it. I prayed I wasn’t next.
“Well, well, well, who is your friend?”
The feminine voice snaked behind Anthony. For a second, I breathed easy, grateful for the reprieve. Then she emerged. Tucked her arm around his. Offered me the same stern glance.
Christ, she was as beautiful as him.
She rocked skin-tight black pants and a crimson corset—an ensemble matching Anthony’s chosen colors. But she didn’t look like the other women wandering around the floor. Her four inch stilettos were more presentation than practicality, and she must have sewed her pants over her hips. The corset framed her perfectly flat stomach and barely contained her chest. Not a single lock of auburn hair dared to slip out of her meticulously tended French braid.
Though she coiled over Anthony, pouting trouble-maker red lips, there was no way in hell anyone was leading her around on a leash.
Anthony’s eyes darkened. “This is Morgan.”
“What a pleasure, Morgan.” The woman purred over my name. She studied me as remorselessly as Anthony. Licked her bottom lip.
Damn my curiosity.
“Welcome to Duchess,” she said. “I’m Simone Lesley. This is my club.”
Simone
. Of course. She was everything I imagined in a fetish club owner, and she fit perfectly against Anthony. I swallowed as best I could, but a response wasn’t coming. I was a violinist, not a singer. I had nothing in my vocal range that could match the sultry whisper of her voice.
I held out the phone and prayed I wouldn’t spontaneously combust under the combined burden of their attention.
“You left this downstairs,” I murmured.
He didn’t hear me. I might as well have mewed like a kitten and started to cry. My cheeks burned, and Simone lowered her head onto his shoulder.
“Look, Anthony. She returned your phone.” She tapped her heel against the wooden floors. I got the point. She’d squish me in a heartbeat. “How
sweet
.”
He made me hold out the phone for longer than was necessary. It felt like a test. No, a judgment. He wanted to see if I would crack under the pressure. Another slap echoed off the wall, and a girl moaned for mercy. The crowd murmured their appreciation.
Yes. Yes, I would crack. The phone trembled.
Anthony exhaled, but the aggravation in his expression melted. He took the phone from my hand, his fingers dragging on my palm as pulled away.
“You didn’t need to bring this up to me.”
Despite my best intentions, and everything I was taught about holding a proper conversation, I had to look away.
“I didn’t want it to get lost.”
Simone wiggled against him. “She’s so thoughtful, Anthony.”
“Apparently.”
“And brave. Coming up here all alone.” Simone’s words sounded too sweet. She charmed and insulted in the same breath. Better than the alternative. She owned Duchess, and I had a feeling more than a few people were thrown out for crashing the upstairs party.
Maybe she’d just let me leave. Was it a crime to trespass up here?
I couldn’t imagine the news headline:
College Dropout Jailed Overnight in Sex Club Scandal.
Then the quote from my mother—
I don’t know where we went wrong, but I blame her father for encouraging her to go into the arts
.
“Okay.” I had nothing to do with my hands and nowhere safe to look. “I wanted to make sure you got your phone.”
“Leaving so soon?” Simone grinned.
What did she want from me? I braved a glance at her, but that was a mistake. More people probably got in trouble for looking at her than sneaking in the club. Anthony was a safer target. But his expression raged even darker. Far more dangerous. My stomach peeled out and fled back downstairs.
“Let me thank you properly for returning my phone,” Anthony said.
I hesitated. A dozen scenarios played through my mind, and not one of them was suitable outside the crazy ass club.
“A reward?” Simone’s blood-red fingernails traced over Anthony’s shoulder. “I hoped her good deed wouldn’t go unpunished.”
And the panic was back.
I stepped backwards, colliding again with the wall. They probably heard the
thunk
. I had enough evaluation for one day. I didn’t know if it their beauty, strength, or the atmosphere in the club, but I feared they could see right through my clothes. Everything in me fluttered. I didn’t like it.
But I wasn’t sure I disliked the attention.
“Let me take you out for coffee,” Anthony said.
Coffee? I looked around the room. The lingerie clad women plunked off the couch and settled between the man’s legs. The masked man groaned and rattled the chain on his ankle. How could he talk about a
coffee date
when a women in the next room was getting the hell beat out of her—and somehow loving it—while everyone else watched like it was country club bridge night?
“Oh, go on,” Simone said. “He doesn’t bite on the first date.”
That was a step too far for Anthony. The disapproving glance aimed for me ricocheted to her. Simone went silent.
That was interesting.
“Coffee?” I asked. “Where?”
Where
?
That
was the question I picked? Not
what the hell is this place
or
are you going to beat that woman next
or
are you and Simone some sort of weird fetish couple dream team?
“There’s a cafe not far from here.” Anthony didn’t miss a beat as the screams from the mystery woman sang in pleasure. “On the corner of Fifth. Do you know it?”