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“Easy,” he replies. “If it feels good, say yes. If not, say no. If you feel overwhelmed, just tell me to stop or slow down and we’ll go from there.”
“Will we have a safe word?” I ask.
“If you like,” he replies.
I didn’t want a random word like banana, that would suck the eroticism out of the moment. It has to be neutral.
“What’s your third name?” I ask, as a joke. No one has a third name.
“Bruce,” he replies.
I giggle. That is actually pretty sexy. “Bruce it is.”
“Dessert?” he offers.
I shake my head. My stomach still feels weird after reaching our agreement. I can’t help picturing whips and chains. Sharp objects. Gimp suits. “No thanks. But I am ready for that second round you offered me.”
I can see the muscles move in his jaw.
“I’ll take you back to the hotel. We’re just going to make a stop on the way. A nightcap.”
I nod. An extra dose of courage would be helpful.
We park in an underground lot. When I spot the elevator, Alistair takes my hand. “This way,” he prompts, pulling me away from the light and toward a tunnel. Halfway through, there’s a hidden door in the wall. Alistair’s phone opens the lock, and we go inside.
The secret invite-only club is called Iniquity. It’s a different world.
Hot, humid, so much bass flowing through the room that I can feel it in my swollen pussy. Neon lights, but not too many. It’s dark, but with little pockets of highlights. I can smell the money.
Alistair doesn’t have to order drinks. As soon as they spot him, they nod, and he takes me to a booth. I see gold sequin bikinis, diamonds, more bottles of French champagne than I can count. At the table next to us, two topless women chat in an animated way while taking turns snorting coke.
Seeing them like that makes me breathe faster, and Alistair feels it. He squeezes my hand. “You like that?”
I’m not sure how to respond. Why would I like it?
“Stop thinking so much,” he says. “How does it feel in your body?”
“I feel … turned on.”
There. I said it.
“Good,” he murmurs in my ear. “Very good.”
Champagne arrives, and Alistair slips the waiter a hundred-quid tip.
“See,” he winks. “We’re already making progress.”
“I didn’t think we had started yet,” I reply.
His eyes burn into mine. “We started the second you agreed.”
My anxiety spikes. I want to backpedal. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve signed up for and it feels dangerous. I don’t even know this man.
Alistair grabs my thigh under the table, and I jolt.
“Hey,” he says, and I look at him, probably giving the impression of a deer in headlights. “Hey,” he repeats. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
His eyes won’t leave mine. He’s telling the truth. I have no reason to trust him, but I do. It’s a physical feeling, an undeniable pull that draws us together.
