“What the fuck?” I whisper, approaching the stairs.
I take them one at a time, gently, slowly, not wanting to draw any kind of attention to myself.
“You’re early tonight, Eve,” I hear a female voice say over the low throb of music before my head breaks the surface of the second floor. I back up against the wall, staying hidden in the shadows, and listen.
“Oh, I guess I am. I was wondering why no one was at the door to check IDs. Guess I was a little excited to get here,” she replies and giggles. She fucking giggles. It’s such a sweet and carefree sound it makes me question if it was even her who made it.
The other woman asks her, “You meeting Master Connors tonight? Y’all’s scene last week was amazing. You took that bullwhip like a champ.” And my head whips in the direction of their voices even though I can’t see them.
Master Connors? Scene? Bullwhip? “What the fuck?” I repeat, wanting so badly to take a few more steps that would put my eyes above the second floor’s ground level so I can see what the hell is happening.
“Thank you,” Ms. Richards answers, and I can hear the shyness in her response, picture the blush rising in her face. “No, I’m meeting Lancelot.”
“Ah, nice choice. I heard he’s wonderful with a flogger. Have you gotten to scene with Scar yet?” the woman asks, and I don’t have time to dwell on the mention of a flogger and yet another man’s name before Ms. Richards responds.
“Twice. He did a great job, but I think my favorite so far has been Midas and his Hitachi. I could barely make it to my car my legs were so shaky.” She giggles again, and my head is spinning. Because I know what a fucking Hitachi is. I’ve watched enough fucking porn to know exactly what the vibrating wand can do to a woman.
The woman laughs along with her. “Girl, same. How many did you get? I know he made you count. He makes everyone count.”
“I got to six before I nearly passed out.” She snorts. “I know, I know,” she says, as if the other woman gave her a look. “I’m a wimp. Didn’t Dulce get to like… fourteen or something?”
“Seventeen before she literally fainted. She’s a badass.”
And it’s with that I realize the women are talking about orgasms.
Meaning Ms. Richards let a man bring her to orgasm six times with a vibrator before her legs were quivering enough she could hardly walk to her car to make it home.
I’ve heard stories about this town, rumors of their being a club here in which all one’s sexual fantasies can be fulfilled. A BDSM club that only the super-rich and vetted can be a part of. But Ms. Richards… she’s a fucking school librarian.
What. The. Fuck? Did I enter the Twilight Zone when I came through that door now behind me? Did someone slip something into my drink at the party, and now I’m hallucinating or dreaming on the couch, still in Alistor’s living room? Because surely this isn’t the real Ms. Richards. Surely this isn’t the skittish little mouse who trembles in fear when I get too close.
I have to see for myself. I have to know for a fact what I’m hearing with my own ears will match what my eyes will see, because until then, I can’t fully believe it.
“Let me take your coat and I’ll check it. You need anything out of your pockets?” the woman asks, and I ascend three steps slowly, just enough to peek over the top step.
And my eyes land on the high heels I saw Ms. Richards was wearing while I was watching her from my truck. I try to take everything in at once—the dance floor, the DJ booth where all the lights are coming from, the bar, the horseshoe of giant leather booths, the red lights beyond them that look to be above different doorways hidden behind heavy black curtains, the glowing red neon lights at the very back of the club that has Club Alias in a classy curling script.
But my eyes shoot back to the high heel covered feet when I see them move slightly, and then my gaze trails upward just as Ms. Richards loosens the belt at her waist and unbuttons the row holding her trench coat closed. And then she lets the coat slip off her shoulders, catching it in her hands behind her, and she reveals what she’s wearing beneath it.
“Fuuuck,” I growl, my cock going rock-hard in an instant, so fast I wobble as all the blood from my head apparently drained straight into my dick. And then I curse again as both women’s eyes turn toward my guttural voice, and I watch as the color drains from Ms. Richards’s face.
Chapter 4
Evie
No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. My head jerks to the left, searching out where the deep curse came from, and I see just the head that belongs to none other than Nate Black as he peeks into the club, still on the stairway. I’m frozen like a deer in headlights as his eyes travel from mine down over my clothing—or lack thereof—to my feet incased in black pointed-toe stilettos.
His nostrils flare as his gaze moves back up, stopping at my breasts that are wrapped in dark-blue lace, unlined, so my nipples are clearly visible. It travels downward again, over my bare stomach, and stops for a moment at the matching dark-blue panties that are so tiny they’re useless, only there for the barest modicum of modesty.
It’s when his bottom lip pulls in between his teeth that I finally snap into action, hurriedly pulling my black trench coat back up my arms and over my shoulders and knotting the belt around my waist, not bothering to waste time on the buttons.
A word hasn’t been spoken since his guttural curse, until finally Dixie, one of the submissives who works here, calls out, “Excuse me, sir. This is a private club. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Her voice is polite but stern, yet Nathaniel ignores her, because why wouldn’t he? Being who he is, he’s been raised to do whatever the hell he wants.
Instead, he climbs the rest of the way up the steps, his frame coming into view one step up at a time, seeming to grow upward from the very depths of hell itself like a fallen angel, a demon. First, his chest. Step. Then, his waist, his torso encased in a fitted plain black T-shirt, a sharp contrast to the white polo shirt I see him in every day at school. Step. Next, his hips, which he reaches down at the front of to adjust what’s behind his fly. Step. His powerful thighs wrapped in dark jeans, not baggy but not tight either, enough to be comfortable and able to move freely if he needed to get somewhere quickly. Step. Calves I’ve seen before when he was in his tiny swim uniform that look like they were chiseled by fucking Michelangelo himself. Step. And finally, black expensive-looking tennis shoes that seem so wrong in a place like Club Alias, where most of the men wear Italian leather dress shoes or boots.
He prowls up to me. No other word could be used to describe his gait. He’s so tall and powerful-looking I can’t move as he approaches, my head tilting… tilting… tilting back as he takes the final steps up to me so I can look into his eyes, one slightly hidden behind his dark hair that’s fallen forward over his brow. I watch, fascinated, as the hair moves slightly when he blinks, caught in his thick, dark eyelashes, and then he runs his hand through it, pushing it out of his face and making his giant bicep flex as it comes up next to my head he’s so very close. If I were to look straight ahead, I’d be staring at the middle of his chest. I swallow thickly, the sound of it loud inside my head even over the thump of bass playing low inside the club, since I got here early before it’s even open like the lonely, desperate creature I am.