High-backed booths dot the open-concept space, and small alcoves line the walls, half-drawn curtains offering a modicum of privacy.
A backlit bar stretches the full length of the dark room, with only colorful neon uplighting splashed across the walls to illuminate the space.
The music is soft, sensual, the lyrics bordering on lewd, yet they sound dangerously poetic.
Everything about the club whispers sex like a soft voice of a lover whose lips brush your ear.
I can smell the arousal, almost taste the salty tang of excitement in the air.
But what steals my breath away are the naked women suspended from the ceiling by swaths of aerial silk.
Theydance beneath spotlights, moving and contorting, twisting and twirling in sensual undulations that offer tantalizing glimpses of their bare flesh when the golden lighting hits them just right.
Several men sit at the bar, watching them with rapt attention.
But to my surprise, though it takes all my strength to tear my eyes away from the erotic acrobatics, the rest of the room seems caught up in their own activities.
And as I slowly make my way toward the main source of alcohol I desperately need right now, I can see why.
Each alcove is occupied by a couple—or sometimes three or more people, bodies of all shapes and sizes entwined in passionate embrace.
My skin heats at the open displays of affection, and my eyes drop as my pulse hammers through my veins.
I’ve never seen anything so openly erotic.
And it feels intrusive to watch, even if they seem perfectly comfortable with the display.
Too afraid to look up, even when I reach the bar, I slide onto one of the high stools, burning a hole in the polished black granite of the bar top’s surface.
“Something to drink,Bella?” the bartender asks, planting his tattooed hand on the counter before me to indicate I’m the one he’s addressing.
My eyes snap up, and I force a smile, praying I don’t look as flustered as I feel.
I need something to take the edge off my nerves right now. “Please,” I say breathlessly. “A shot of whiskey.” I’ve never liked the stuff, but my brothers call it liquid courage, and I could use a bit of that if I still want to accomplish what I came here for tonight.
The bartender’s dark eyebrows rise slowly, his gaze traveling over my face, and I can feel him calculating my age as he counts the freckles on my nose and cheeks. “You twenty-one?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, the back of my neck warming to the point that I’m sure he won’t believe me.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” he insists, though he keeps his tone perfectly level—not an ounce of suspicion slipping in. Very professional.
“Oh, I…” I pat my pea coat’s pockets, knowing damn well that cash is the only thing I’ll find in them. “I must have left it at home…”
“It’s fine, Dom.” The deep voice that cuts in beside me sends a shiver down my spine. “This one’s on me. I’ll take one as well.”
The bartender doesn’t hesitate.
With a curt nod, he turns to pour my shot, and I take a shaky breath in through my nose before I look at the man who came to my rescue.
My heart stutters painfully.
He’s tall. I can tell, despite the fact that he’s reclining on the stool next to me, his elbows propped against the bar.
His suit coat is open, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone in a sexy, casual display that shows off the tips of a few curling tattoos on his chest.
Judging by the strong angle of his jaw and the stubble that darkens it, I’d wager he’s old enough to grow a full beard—in his mid-twenties if I had to guess.
Definitely older than me—old enough to be drinking the booze he’s ordered.
