“One lick,” I allow. “Make it count.”
Giving me one last weighted look, he leans forward, and I shiver when I feel his hot breath fan over my core.
And then his tongue is sliding against my clit, slow and firm. He groans around me, and I can no longer hold on. I shatter around him, crying out as my world breaks apart. My free hand flies into his hair, grasping for something to hold on to as my knees buckle.
He quickly stands, catching me and holding me up against him, our hands pressed tightly against my pussy as I ride out the waves.
I press my forehead into his chest, squeezing my eyes shut as the remnants of the orgasm slowly fade.
Both hands cup my face before sliding into my locks, pulling my head back and nudging his mouth against my cheek.
“Give me them,” he demands sharply.
With aftershocks still attacking my nerves, I let him in, turning my mouth towards his. His lips capture mine immediately, and it rivals the pleasure radiating between my thighs.
He kisses me deeply, drawing out a small, husky moan before pulling away, only to brush his lips across my ear. Surprise renders me still when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a rose, and slips it behind my ear.
“One day, you’re going to feel safe with me again,” he whispers, his voice dangerously soft. “And when that day comes, you better pray I’m feeling generous.”
The second I walk into the club, Supple, it feels like a sinister entity reaches out and wraps itself around me.
A black studded half-mask rests over my eyes, concealing the upper half of my face. While they’re not required in this club, more attendees wear them than not, preferring to keep their identities anonymous. Which translates to keeping their reputations intact.
A heavy bass vibrates the black and gold marble that stretches across the main floor with two bars on either side and a stage straight ahead with seating surrounding it.
Instead of the typical club bangers, slow and heavy music plays, the woman on stage performing a sensual dance to the heavy beat. She’s wearing a black bra and panty set with a diamond-encrusted mesh dress over top of it. A red mask covers her face, dark hair spilling out from around it in waves.
For several moments, I’m entranced. Her lithe curves roll and move to the music with perfect precision, drawing onlookers in like moths to a roaring flame.
She keeps her clothes on, but she doesn’t even need to undress in order to perform the sexiest dance I have ever witnessed.
“Focus, baby,” Zade whispers from the Bluetooth in my ear. His voice is deep and lined with gravel, sending a shiver down my spine. Most likely from watching me watch her. He’s hacked into the cameras in every corner of the room, and even through grainy footage, he must’ve seen how enraptured I was.
I feel my cheeks flush, spreading down to the pit of my belly. This place is already sinking its claws into me, and I’ve barely made it past the front door.
“She’s a good dancer,” I defend, refusing to be embarrassed over appreciating another woman’s beauty.
“Didn’t notice,” he replies.
Oddly, I believe him, and something about that deepens the heat swirling in my stomach.
Several people line the barstools, though the room is far from crowded. I spot an empty seat in the middle of the left bar, so I beeline for it.
I need a drink before I make my way downstairs—where all the real debauchery takes place according to Zade.
The bartender is a young man wearing a suit and bowtie with a sleek black vest. His glossy black hair is slicked back, and only a thin mustache covers his upper lip. He reminds me of what Edgar Allan Poe would’ve looked like in his younger years.
“What can I get for you, miss?” he asks politely, his dark eyes pinned to mine.
“A martini, please,” I answer.
He’s sliding over my drink a couple of minutes later, accepting my cash with a pleasant smile. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to engage in small talk and focuses on his bar and the other patrons.
I subtly glance around while I sip my martini, the burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat soothing to my nerves. I can’t help but feel like I’m being watched, though I suppose that’s the purpose of this place. Apparently, voyeurism and exhibitionism are a given here. There’s only so many places to go for privacy, and most patrons don’t bother with it.
It’s not exactly uncomfortable as it is unnerving. It makes me wonder what the woman on stage must feel, with so many sets of eyes tracing her every curve. Does it make her feel good? Or does she tune out the weight of people’s stares and lose herself in the music?