Although I seem to be sobering up quick.
A stunning redhead in a tulip cut cocktail dress catches my attention at the threshold—doubly so as her eyes land on Dylan.
‘Welcome,’ she says, stalking towards me. Or rather towards him. I don’t turn to watch his reaction but rather, watch hers. I watch her appraise him. Recognise him. Shyly tilt her head. You’d think I’d be used to this—Dylan is the fantasy all the ladies want to turn to reality—but I’m not as her attentions create a knot in my throat. A knot I need to unravel quickly because what—or who—he does these days has nothing to do with me.
Shouldn’t, anyway.
‘May I ask under which auspices you’re attending tonight?’ I realise she holds a small electronic tablet in her hand.
‘Copper for my wife and silver for myself.’ Dylan’s voice holds none of the usual charm reserved for being out in public.For his fans. Instead, he’s actually quite brusque. ‘And we have a cottage booked.’
‘Of course,’ she replies, all business now. From inside the tablet’s leather cover, she pulls out a length of silver ribbon, offering it to Dylan when he reaches past her outstretched hand to the tablet, snagging a copper length along with another of silver.
‘That’s all we need,’ he asserts, effectively dismissing her.
‘Cell phones must be checked on entry.’
Dylan laughs softly, lifting my hand. ‘No need to fear the repercussion of a camera here, huh?’ Before I’ve a chance to retract it, he begins tying the copper ribbon around my wrist it in a bow.
‘Whydo I need... ’ My words, meant for the redhead, trail off as Dylan stares at me from beneath those thick lashes.Lashes as black as his heart.
‘Copper ribbons are down for fucking. Silver signifies undecided.’ I shiver, hating myself for the way my body reacts to his trailing finger as he strokes from my wrist to my fingertip. Leaving my hand suspended in the air, he turns, his eyes suddenly raking over the woman standing silently nearby. ‘But open to the possibility.’
He tucks his ribbon into the breast pocket of his button-down, smiling secretly as a blush colours her face from the neck up. For a woman working for a sex club—for a swingers network?—the blush seems easily brought. Or maybe it’s just a really good act.Half the population of L.A. seems to be taking acting classes.I suppose seeing the object of your desire jump from thirty feet high to six feet is a lot to get your head around. And in real life, Dylan’s so much more than he is on screen, and those moss green eyes seem to promise you things.
Like the death of your self-respect.
Tired of watching him make a show of himself for my benefit, I swallow a huff I can’t afford to make and begin descending a set of stairs, following the dull thud of dance music.
At the bottom, one side of a set of double doors to a basement opens, a man, who looks like he could be working security, brushes my shoulder as he ascends the staircase. I watch as the heavy fire door closes, muffling the provocative thrum of bass. Trepidation and a sense of disbelief keep me in place as the music vibrates under the soles of my feet.
I sense him before I feel him, his hand on my elbow, gripping tight.
‘You’ll stay close to me. This isn’t the kind of place—’
I shrug him off, literally, adding disgust and betrayal to list of emotions I’m drowning in. ‘This isn’t a sex club. It’s a house in Bel Air,’ I hiss. ‘Is there going to be a bowl where house keys and spouses get traded?’
‘Don’t be so fucking provincial. It’s just a rented space. These events are exclusive events held every month—different places—hotels, resorts, multi-million-dollar rentals like this.’
‘And I suppose you’d know.’ As I say it, I could bite off the end of my tongue. I shouldn’t give him ammunition such as my disgust and shock.
‘Why, Edera.’ Amusement ripples over his face because those reactions aren’t the only emotions I’m inadvertently revealing. ‘Are you jealous?’’
‘Are you an arsehole?’
Face burning, I raise my chin when his fingers catch it. ‘I’ve fucked plenty of assholes lately. And I have you to thank for that.’
I pull away from him, turning and wrenching the entrance wide before storming into the cavernous and darkly lit space.
The music pounds; starting at my feet, it works its way up my legs and ends in a thrum between my thighs. Maybe five or six couples are dancing. A bar is set against the far wall, and a bartender serves cocktails. The whole place, at first glance, could be any club in the world... until you notice the subtle flash of flesh under a strobe light, and the bodies pushed together in corners. A woman sandwiched between two dancing men. The music works its way to my centre, settling low, and though I hate to admit it, the presence of Dylan at my back is mostly responsible.
Ignoring him—I’m sure he’s standing there purely to assess my flight risk—I keep my eyes fixed on a man sitting on a high stool at the bar. A man with a woman standing between his splayed legs.She looks familiar. Was she in a movie I watched last week with Nat?They’re not doing anything out of the ordinary; nothing overtly sexual, in any case, but there’s something about them. Something that makes it hard to tear away my gaze. The whole setting is too much—too sexual—but as she slides her hands through his hair, the intimacy calls out to me. Makes me long for the same.
Deepens a certain flutter between my legs.
‘How many fingers does he have in her pussy, do you think?’
My insides clench emptily at his words. In the split second it takes Dylan to pull away, the woman throws her head back, pleasure curled in the softoof her mouth.
