“Been a while. Wanted to check out how our lovely performers are getting on.”
“Of course. Phones,” she says, holding out a velvet pouch. “House rules.” We drop our phones in. “Follow me.”
She parts the long curtains, and Reese steps into a room made of dark cherry wood. Stained glass chandeliers from Morocco cast fractured colors across mirrored walls. Leather booths curve along the edges.
The jazz music thrums,bum, bum, bum.
Reese’s pupils dilate, flashing from me to the stage, where dancers’ heels clack.
Our booth sits at the edge of the stage, perfectly positioned, because that’s what you can buy here—perfect positions. Ramsey maintains his professional distance while a bottle of champagne arrives unordered.
“Dante Hastings, are we…?” She shuffles closer to me in the booth, like she’s scared of this place.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair?”
Her mouth stays open. “Are we at a sex club?”
“Not exactly.” I drop my hand to her thigh. “Though desire lingers in every shadow here. It’s more an exploration of what we deny ourselves.”
Reese gawks at the women on stage, who are peeling off their gloves in controlled longing.
“Burlesque,” I whisper into her hair.
The juxtaposition is exquisite. Her pristine sundress, innocent pink headband, the delicate pearl necklace against my ring. My cock stirs at the sight of her flushed.
“You like it?” I play with the edge of her dress, dying to touch her skin.
Reese peeks around the booth. “This is definitely on the list of things that might bring you bad press.”
“This place breeds discretion.” I pause. “I’m an investor, actually.”
“Really?” Her eyes go wide as I pour a glass of champagne. “What other secrets are you keeping in that portfolio of yours?”
I can’t explain it, but I’m eager to impress her.
“My money comes from the usual post-Olympic vanity projects—cologne campaigns, fashion lines—and my parents made sure each sibling received enough shares of Viggle that the returns alone mean none of us ever needs to work. But what really took off were some investments I made back in Princeton. Threw some money at a few brilliant nerds hunched over laptops. Turns out their caffeine-fueled coding sessions were worth something. I happened to have the cash and, let’s say, a talent for recognizing potential.”
“Oh, so that’s how you got into D&D?” she chuckles.
“The Princeton D&D sessions had their own particular rules. The dice determined things beyond mere combat rolls.” Another pause, deliberate this time. “Clothing was often the first casualty.”
“Do you miss being at those kinds of parties?” she asks, her voice steady but her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “With people who enjoy those kinds of things?”
The question hangs between us. What she’s really asking is clear:Am I enough to hold someone like you?
I look at her, considering lying.
I’ve always been good at that—saying what people want to hear. But with her, the thought of it makes my stomach turn. “That’s a complex question.”
“It’s actually pretty simple,” she counters, chin lifting. “I’m wondering what makesthisdifferent from your usual rotation.”
“Because you’re not in a rotation,” I say, too quickly, too defensively. I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated by my inability to articulate something that feels so obvious to me.“Look, before, everything was transactional. Even when I didn’t mean for it to be.”
“And now?” Her eyes are bright, challenging, but there’s vulnerability there too.
The real answer scares me. This isn’t about fucking or escaping. It’s about presence. When I’m with her, everything intensifies, expands. My feelings deepen with frightening clarity.
I need her. Not want—need.
