Chapter 1
Ethan
Isip my scotch, but it does nothing to ease the lead weight in my stomach. Despite the silver Grecian mask obscuring more than half my face, I feel like there’s a huge neon sign above my head flashing:Beckford University’s football coach caught hanging out in a sex club.
“Relax, mate.” Andy chuckles, slapping me on the back like he isn’t the reason I’m here. “You look like you’re constipated.”
I fix my best mate with a glare and swallow another mouthful of my drink.
My thumb automatically moves to trace the ring on my left hand, only it’s no longer there, and I release a deep sigh. I signed the divorce papers this morning, but old habits die hard, I suppose. Nineteen years of marriage, wasted. I feel like I’m being unfaithful by even sitting in Euphoria’s main lounge, but she was the one who cheated on me with her personal trainer.
When did my life become such a cliché?
“You deserve to have a bit of fun,” Andy continues, hiseyes wandering around the room. He’s like a broken record, having said an iteration of this after every training session and match this past two seasons. Sometimes I wonder if he’s my assistant coach, my best friend, or my unofficial shrink.
“I’m not sure this is my idea of fun,” I say, dragging my gaze to the three half-naked women dancing on the stage to our right, then to the three cages where people are engaged in different sex acts. There’s a butterfly-masked woman on her knees in the closest one, choking on a cock while another masked man pounds into her from behind.
The only reason I agreed to come with Andy tonight is because of the anonymity the masks offer. Euphoria’s monthly masked night is the perfect opportunity to see what he’s been raving about without anyone recognising me. It sounded like the kind of distraction I need to avoid dwelling on my failed marriage. Only, now I’m sitting here, I feel like an imposter.
A man wearing nothing but a g-string, a black studded dog-collar, and a dog mask crawls past me, led by another man, who’s naked except for the skeleton mask, his cock jutting out proudly in front of him.
I shift in my seat, wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.
“No kink-shaming,” Andy murmurs, keeping his voice low. “Anything goes here. We just need to find yours.”
“I don’t have a kink,” I mutter. “I’m as vanilla as they come.”
Which is probably why Vanessa cheated on me.
“Everyone has a kink,” he says with a smirk. “Most of usjust repress it for fear of what people will think. That’s the beauty of this place. There’s something for everyone.”
I try to keep an open mind, but I’m not going to lie, the longer I sit here, the tighter my skin feels. “What’s yours?”
Andy’s been coming to Euphoria since it opened three and a half years ago, and he’s been at me to join him for the past two years, since the day I went home early to surprise my wife only to find her personal trainer servicing her in our bed. The sound of her gagged moans and the image of her tied up like a fucking pretzel have haunted my nightmares since.
“A man doesn’t kiss and tell,” he says with a wink. “But let’s just say I like a bit of pain with my pleasure.”
Fuck me.
I run a hand through my cropped hair, fighting the urge to spring from my chair and make a run for it. What the hell have I got myself into?
His eyes lock on a woman wearing a black leather bodysuit and a red lace mask, his lips tugging into a sultry smile when his gaze lands on the whip in her hand. Her hips sashay as she stalks over to him, running the torture device over his pecs and down to his groin. His legs part, and she steps between them, running her tongue over her red lips as her eyes lock on the erection straining against his black slacks.
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I tug on my tie. I feel like I’m interrupting something.
“Go explore,” Andy says, never taking his eyes off the woman as his hands run over her tight arse. “See if you can find something you like… or someone.”
Not needing to be told twice, I down my drink thenrush out of my chair like my arse is on fire, ignoring my friend’s laughter. But the burn of the first scotch wasn’t enough, so I head to the bar for a refill. I signal the bartender, drumming my fingers on the bar while I wait.
“You seem tense,” a soft, sultry voice comes from beside me, and my pulse spikes.
Christ, Ethan. You’re a thirty-nine-year-old man, not a fucking prepubescent teenager.
Clearing my throat, I turn to see a young woman with flaming-red hair wearing a devil’s mask. She sits in a highbacked chair at the bar, her black lips wrapped around a straw as she sips her clear drink. Vodka and lime, if I had to guess.
“That obvious?” I ask with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“A bit,” she says with a smile that crinkles her petite nose, holding up her fingers to show just how small.
