Chapter Thirteen
KIT
The following Friday night, I have my usual room booked at the Den. I don’t linger in any of the common areas, though I do order a drink after checking in with my phone—one of the club’s rules to protect identities—then I head straight to the room.
I’m there before Simone and Greg, and that pisses me off for no other reason than I’m in a bastard of a mood. I’d altered the booking yesterday, changing it to a different room. Change is as good as a rest, or so they say. Only, I’m not sure a change of scenery will do the trick.
I hang up my suit jacket and take a seat in the room decorated like a high-end hotel—pale walls and cherry wood furniture concealing all kinds of kinky kit. It’s a little Danish in décor, though more Eames than Ikea, with various shades of white. It reminds me of a dentist’s waiting room, and I begin to wish I’d left the booking as it was.
When the pair arrives, Greg almost trips over himself as he notes the large, padded leather bench in the centre of the room, fixed with restraints at various points. I ordinarily get a kick out of seeing his trepidation. He likes restraints... on himself. While he watches me fuck his wife, loathing himself while he does so.
I’ve never asked him why. I’m not a psychologist or even interested. If it works for them and their marriage, I’m usually, though not always, in... somewhere.
‘What’s with the change of rooms?’ Simone doesn’t appear to notice any difference in the atmosphere as she places a bottle of water down on a console table. ‘Don’t tell me they double booked?’
She looks good tonight, as always, though this Friday isn’t an event like last week. No feather masks or evening wear, no kinky shows to admire on the main floors.No watching her suck another’s dick while I’m buried balls deep. No sexual free-for-all.
Simone pulled her dark hair into a ponytail, and her dark, tight jeans look new. Nude coloured heels and a champagne camisole complete the look. She looks like a yummy mummy ready for a night of cocktails with the girls. As for Greg—dressed in a pale grey shirt and dark pants—he looks a little scared. Which works for him. He likes a little fear and humiliation.
‘Kit? Did you hear me?’
I take a mouthful of my drink—Hendricks and tonic—and turn my attention to her.
‘I heard. I just don’t care to answer.’ The look on her face is priceless and sends a surge to my dick.
‘You’re in a strange mood.’ She makes as though to move to the chaise, but I have other plans.
‘Stop. Just where you are. And strip.’
‘What?’ Her cheeks are suddenly painted pink, her chest rising and falling with halting breaths. It’s been a while since we played like this, and I can tell the prospect excites her.
‘You heard me. Strip. All of it—off. Both of you.’ I put my glass back on the side table and make a show of rolling my shirt sleeves. ‘Last week, you were both very rude to a friend.’
‘What? When?’ Greg is quiet, but Simone, as usual, is all mouth.
I should make her put it to good use.
But then, she’d like that.
‘Outside the club.’ My answer is impassive as I pick my glass up again.
It’s almost funny that she pretends not to recall when her behaviour was borderline possessive. And that’s not how our dynamic works. We have no claim on each other beyond the duty of care the pair should have for each other and their marriage.
‘She tried to hit me,’ she says, pointing her finger in my direction, her accusation clear.I didn’t defend her. Didn’t come down on her side.‘And you said you weren’t seeing anyone.’
Ah. And there we have it. The crux of her ire.
The first part of her statement could’ve been stated in a court of law. The latter, more appropriately in a schoolyard; whining and petulant, she displays a protuberant bottom lip to match.
‘Is it any business of yours who I fuck?’ My voice is cold and impassive, making it clear that I’m bored when I’m actually annoyed. Irrationally annoyed and feeling protective of a woman I barely know. ‘And did I say you could stop taking off your clothes?’ Her fingers return to her jeans, sliding them down over her smooth, toned thighs as ill-suppressed anger mars her pretty face. ‘Well?’
‘No,’ she spits out.
‘Have I ever asked you when was the last time you fucked Greg?’
‘Of course not, but—’
‘I am now.’ I turn my question to him. ‘When was the last time you got your dick wet, Greg?’
