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Anna stays close by my side as we explore the space; my hand rests just below the dip of her backless dress that reveals her nearly completed tattoo. The dress code requires men to be in collared dress shirts and pants, however, women are given a little more freedom, walking around in various levels of attire from formal wear to sexy cocktail dresses to lingerie.

All of the furnishings are purposefully chosen to enhance the ambiance of the large club, and extra staff quietly move about the floor. For the most part, they fade into the background, but once you take notice, they’re everywhere—collecting empty champagne flutes, passing trays of bite-sized petit fours, checking on guests, and making sure no one is operating outside the rules or in sections they aren’t cleared to be in.

Eric spoke highly of the club’s caliber, and from what I can tell, it’s every bit as polished as he claimed it to be. The cleanliness isn’t sterile; rather it invites touch and exploration. Subtle notes of sandalwood and amber add to the warmth. A few areas contain heavy velvet curtains that can be drawn or left open. The atmosphere is so well designed that the nudity and heavy public displays of affection don’t seem out of place. Wristbands signify whether people are open to playing or are simply there to watch.

I drop my hand from her back and take her hand in mine, tracing my thumb in circles over her knuckles. Despite her seeming at ease, I want her to know I’m not going anywhere. She’s attracted attention from some of the guests and I notice them noticing—more intriguing is the way her breath changes when she notices too. However, our wristbands signify we’re here only for observation.

Eric and Brandi meet us near the back and I introduce them to Anna. We’ve been given the rundown on rules, boundaries, and the zero-tolerance policy regarding consent and hostile behavior. I keep a close watch on Anna as they talk, she’s taking it all in with a relaxed smile on her face, eyes full of wonder at the corralled novelty.

We part ways and drift farther into the club, past the small groups, and find ourselves near rooms that stay open, just enough to see but not intrude. In one room a woman in red lace crawls to a man in an armchair, who casually sips whiskey from a snifter glass. In another space, two men are making out and caressing each other while kneeling on a matted floor. We continue our journey until Anna stills beside me.

There’s a naked woman in the center being watched by six or seven voyeurs as a man presses his face between her thighs, devouring her. The woman delves her perfectly manicured hand into the man’s hair, holding her to him while throwing her head back—she’s confident, present, and inviting every gaze that falls upon her.

We enter but stay along the edge, watching. My chest presses against Anna’s back and she shivers. I rest my palms at her waist, keeping her close. The woman moans and Anna’s breath catches softly. “Wow.”

“What are you thinking?” I whisper against the shell of her ear.

She keeps her voice low while her eyes stay locked on the sight before us, completely entranced. “It’s so erotic . . . She’s powerful. Giving herself. She has all of us aroused and mesmerized. Everyone wants her.” She sucks in a small inhale. “I can’t tell if I want to be her . . . or just know what it feels like to be publicly . . . worshipped.”

I start thinking, without even meaning to, about how I’d give her that. How I’d build a scene around her so she could experience it in a space that’s controlled and safe. My hands tighten slightly at her waist before I force them to ease. I observe her breathing. She’s into it—really into it.

“That can be arranged.”

She leans into my chest, loosening her posture, tilting her head to the side as she admires the way the woman is moved to all fours before another man takes her from behind.

“What if I say yes?”

“Then we come back,” I say simply.

From this angle I catch the way her cheeks lift, a light blush blooming on them.

My molars clench. It’s not jealousy, but something deeper, like an old insecurity. I push the unease to the back of my thoughts. What if she wants one of these men to fuck her instead—am I ready for that? I remind myself this could provide closure to some of the trauma she’s experienced in the past; it could be incredibly healing for her. My focus sharpens on the men whose gaze lingers on Anna.

“Do you see how many men are watching you too?”

She chuckles. “But I’m not performing or doing anything.”

“No,” I murmur. “But they’re still attracted to you.”

I don’t miss a second of that tight inhale.

“Does it turn you on?” I ask.

If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t mind the men watching her when she’s at my side—I welcome it.

“A little? Is that weird?”

I shake my head slightly, my lips caressing her temple. “I like watching you.”

I don’t elaborate any further. I don’t tell her about watching her in the throes of pleasure after our rooftop date . . . Or how Halloween night fucked me up in the best way, witnessing her arousal—seeing her gone with it. Nothing gets me like seeing her uninhibited—nothing. Especially after what she’s been through. This woman deserves every bit of pleasure from now until forever.

Her smile spreads. “That’s your cocky side—she’s all mine and you can’t have her.”

“Mine is a title you choose, Duchess, not me.” Not after the scars on her back.

She brushes my hand at her waist, curling her fingers around my palm, and then she's pulling me. No hesitation, no second-guessing, leading me out of the room and into a darker corner of the club. The noise fades, dampened by the heavy oxblood velvet draped behind us.

She turns on me, palms pressing flat to my chest, pushing me back until I hit the curtain. Her hands slide higher, slow and deliberate until they frame my neck. She studies me like she’s making sure she has my attention before speaking.