But this isn’t just a regular hallway. It’s broad with doors on each side and large windows. As I pass the rooms, I take a peek in, but they are still empty, each about the size of a bedroom, and I find myself gulping down my nerves. Will they really let people just go into those rooms and…
I freeze, peering into one. The walls are painted a deep red and it’s still mostly bare, except for one large chair raised on a dais with gold decorative embellishments framing the red velvet seat. “Is that…” I say to myself, or at least I thought it was to myself.
A warm voice that is definitely not Emerson’s finishes my sentence as he approaches me from behind.
“A throne,” Garrett answers plainly. I quickly spin around and stare at him. He has a sly grin on his face, as if he’s daring me to go inside. I glance down the hall for Emerson and when I notice he hasn’t followed and is still talking to the crew in the main room, I take Garrett up on his dare and step tentatively into the room.
“Why a throne?” I ask. It seems a little weird for a sex club. This isn’t a Renaissance fair.
“Why not?” he replies casually, like it’s obvious.
I swallow again. The chair is ginormous, and the platform it sits on has cushioned edges and plenty of space for…movement. I feel Garrett lean closer, his warm breath against my ear as he whispers, “Try it.”
“Me? No. I’m not really a ‘sit in a throne’ type of girl.”
“How can you know if you’ve never tried it?”
I pause, looking back at him. He’s challenging me, and I can’t quite tell if I really like this guy or sort of hate him. But I never turn down a challenge.
“Go ahead,” he continues. His hand is soft against my back as he presses me toward the chair.
“What is even the point?” I ask, relenting to his nudges. Crossing the room, I climb up the step and touch the golden arms of the broad chair. The first thought in my head is that this throne is for kings, larger-than-life men, monarchs and masters. But as my fingers glide along the ridges and peaks of the decor, I correct my train of thought.
Why can’t I sit in it?
Why have I let my own mind be groomed into believing this inferiority?
Turning around, I settle my weight into the seat, and the moment the backs of my thighs hit the crushed red velvet, it feels good. Crossing my legs, I stare down at the room, Garrett leaning against the doorframe watching me with a look of approval on his face.
“How do I look?” I ask. Judging by the way he’s staring at me, I expect another compliment, and he opens his mouth as if to deliver one. But he stops, closing his lips, almost as if he isn’t allowed. Instead, he ambles forward, stopping at the platform and circling around me.
“Now imagine how it would feel to have someone kneeling at your feet. Worshiping you, bowing to your presence.”
I try to imagine it, but it feels so wrong. I can’t seem to shake this idea that a man belongs here and I belong at his feet. Fucking patriarchy.
“Well, go ahead,” I say with a wry smile as he steps in front of me. Let’s see how he likes to be challenged.
He lets out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he faces me and drops to his knees on the velvet cushions with his eyes on my face. As he lowers his gaze, I watch him bend his head downward and bow down to me, his lips near my black stilettos.
There is no chemistry between us, but there is still a warm buzz of arousal coursing down my spine at the sensation. This big, powerful man is bowing to me, and it is intoxicating. I let myself imagine someone else in his place, someone I shouldn’t think about.
As Garrett lifts up, he touches my leg, sliding his fingers up the side of my calf, and I can’t seem to breathe at all. This feels forbidden, and not the good kind. Almost as if I’m…cheating?
“Now imagine what someone could do from this position,” he says quietly. The raspy tone of his voice feels like it’s echoing through my bones. And when I look down at him, I imagine another pair of eyes looking back.
His attention moves downward to the apex of my crossed legs. My mouth goes dry, and I have the undeniable urge to leave.
“What are you doing?” a voice thunders from the doorway, and I jump about three feet in the air. Emerson is glaring at us as I erupt from the chair. His arms are crossed, his fists clenched, and those wolf-like eyes are trained on me with so much vitriol, I feel like I’m going to cry.
“Emerson,” I stammer, waltzing across the room and trying to remain as casual as I can. I’m not interested in Garrett. I mean, he’s gorgeous, but I just met him and I don’t even know him…and why am I defending myself? I didn’t do anything wrong.