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“Pressured?”
His brows crease together. “You’re a beautiful woman, Blythe, and you’re here for the first time, alone. You’ll be, for lack of a better word, a target.”
Blythe, you’re an idiot. What the fuck are you doing?
Without another word, Nicholas slides the doors shut, his eyes glued to mine as he hits the button once more. I’m rendered speechless and regret my decisions. The lift jolts into action and I travel down a good two floors when it comes to a stop. The glow from the lift light partly illuminates the space beyond, a small room dressed in deep red mahogany and patterned wallpaper. It reminds me of nineteen-twenties Gatsby for the rich and famous. A strikingly beautiful woman steps forward and hands me a glass of champagne, her alluring eyes traveling the length of my body. I do the same to her because her dress is truly exquisite. Floor-length and form-fitting, the fabric is covered in tiny, glittering jewels. Her breasts tantalize the eyes as they peek above, her neck wrapped in diamonds.
“Good evening, Ms. Blythe. Welcome to Tempest. My name is Khloe,” she greets, her voice like honey.
“Good evening,” I reply, accepting the much-needed drink. Why did I not lubricate my nerves beforehand?
“You’re quite the treat,” she says, pleased with what she sees. I fear I’ve entered a swingers club and don’t completely dismiss the idea knowing my traitorous sister works or frequents here.
“So are you,” I reply awkwardly because what else am I supposed to say.
A heavy velvet curtain separates us from what’s happening on the other side. I hear voices mixed with some deeply passionate opera music. The climactic type that gets you on the edge of your seat with anticipation.
Her smile is sweet and sultry as she considers me curiously. I feel like I’m wearing a sign around my neck which screams, ‘I don’t belong here.’ My discomfort level is obvious, so to blend in, I square my shoulders and smile confidently. She hooks an arm through mine and pulls back the heavy curtain to reveal a magical room. Instead of one chandelier in the middle, the entire ceiling is covered with hanging, glittering jewels illuminated enough to create a warm, sensual glow. The huge bar wall is stacked with the best bottles of liquor known to man, some illegal in the US, but between the bottles are two suspended beds. I watch in awe as two young women lie on top, creating a montage of sensual positions designed to whet appetites. Dressed in Arabian lingerie, and dripping with hanging jewels covering half their face, they present an exotic theatrical flavor. Movement to the right steals my focus, a completely naked trapeze couple attached to thick ribbons, twirl and dance through the air giving patrons an erotic show. Their bodies rub, grind, and connect in ways that mimic a passionate lust which sets the tone for the room.
As for the guests, they’re dressed in elegant designer dresses and suits, dripping with enough glittering jewels to rival the chandelier.
Crystal glasses flowing with champagne catch the light, twinkling as they’re lifted to lips that only speak of money and riches.
“What is this place?” I murmur to myself.
Khloe inches closer until I smell her sweet perfume. “Welcome to rich men’s heaven.”
16
I’m left to my own devices, a lamb thrown to the wolves, my confidence quickly fading as curious eyes, both men’s and women’s, drink me in. Some linger longer than others, wanting to be caught, others more conservative in their approach. The room is large and decorated wall to ceiling with dark mahogany and luxury red wallpaper. Beautiful Renaissance paintings similar to those at Othello line the walls, the soft, voluptuous bodies of vulnerable women escaping the evil clutches of men, aptly adds another sordid layer to the room.
A server wearing a tux appears at my side, signaling for me to take a glass of champagne. I happily accept and down half the glass in one go, keen to ebb some of the nerves. I suspect it will take more than half a glass, but the night is still young and to say I’m uncomfortable in my surroundings is an understatement.
I watch while guests mingle. Like Othello, they seem very up close and personal with each other. To my relief, it doesn’t strike me as being anything swinger, yet I also can’t quite determine why such a venue is kept hushed, unless it’s simply to appease the minds of the rich knowing they can indulge in a privilege which excludes others less fortunate.
Despite feeling I’m being watched by those who appear as frequenters, I move around the lingering, flirtatious groups, smelling a combination of scents and admiring glittering jewels. They touch each other heartbeats too long, suggestive and enticing. When I move past, hands linger on my hips, faces touching mine until I ease myself away.
