I tousle my hair then quickly pull some daily tarot cards—a ritual I’ve come to love, kind of like journaling—before I slip into a slinky moss-green dress, which hugs every curve. The delicate spaghetti straps expose my collarbones, which are dusted with a hint of champagne shimmer. I look sexy and sensual.
Grabbing my black shawl, I step into a pair of pumps, and head out.
I arrive outside Ruby Lounge just past nine.
Stepping through the unmarked black doors, I enter a reception area of gleaming marble floors and polished, blacked-out mirror walls.
The club is made up of four designed sections. The sleek and minimal reception area leads to the main lounge, where sensual music plays throughout.
In the center of the room is a sunken pit—the crown jewel of the space. An enormous lounge sprawls across it. Women roll their hips while riding cocks. Men sit back, heads reclined and eyes closed as mouths work eagerly in their laps. Nearby, two women are held open, legs pinned by greedy hands while others take their time, feasting on their pussies without shame.
On surrounding sofas, members drink, hands and mouths exploring each other in plain view.
To the left, a towering cross stands. It’s where members are bound and blindfolded, their bodies offered up to be devoured, flogged, spanked, or whipped—depending on the kink. But tonight, it sits empty.
Past this open playground is a long corridor lined with doors to private rooms, leading to the main bar at the rear of the building—which is where I’m headed.
As I move through the long corridor, I hear muffled screams and moans of pleasure, pain, or both.
Leather-upholstered stools curve around the bar, which is lined with expensive liquor.
I clench my thighs when I spot a woman surrender to pleasure in a booth situated at the far corner of the room. One man is biting and sucking her heavy breasts while another worships between her legs. Her head’s thrown back, lost in sensation.
Next to her, a woman straddles another woman, her dress hiked up around her hips while her partner’s hand disappears up her skirt. Her grip on the other woman’s shoulders is tight as she grinds her hips, moaning.
I take a seat at the bar, ordering a flute of bubbly. The bartender’s just tipping champagne into my glass when fabric brushes against my bare arm.
I turn, ready to meet Tim.
But the universe, it seems, has other plans.
Because standing there, in all his arrogant glory, is Max Fucking Browne.
Chapter Twelve
Max
If I could bottle her expression and stash it away, I would.
I clocked her the moment she sauntered in—all dark green fabric clinging to every curve, her hair mussed like she had just stepped out of a sex dream.
This is the last place I expected to see her. But she’s here, and my plan for an easy, fun distraction was immediately eviscerated.
I was reclined on the leather sofa, murmuring something low against a redhead’s lips when I felt a shift in the room’s energy. Heads turned. My eyes followed their line of sight only to land right on the very woman I’ve been trying to avoid.
I pressed my lips into a thin line to hide my smile. I can’t say I was disappointed to see her.
Nagging thoughts chipped away at me.Is she here alone? Does she come here often? Is she meeting someone?
The thought of her coming here to fuck someone else ignited a savage heat beneath my skin. Normally, I’m not the type to get hung up on who someone might be meeting—hell, I’m here for the same reason—but seeing her here struck an uncomfortable nerve.
I plucked my drink from the table. “Excuse me,” I murmured to the woman I’d been entertaining. She shrugged and turned to face the man on her other side. Standing and rolling my shoulders, I observed from a distance as Gemma prowled through the main room toward the bar.
Then I moved.
Now I follow her at a distance through a long, shadowed corridor with adjoining doors.
Gemma sweeps her gaze across the room before settling at the bar and ordering a drink.
