Page 123 of Lennox Lane

A valet opened Lane’s door.

Lennox was there before she could step out fully, hand offered, eyes locked on her like the valet, the building, the entire town of Winston Hills could wait its turn.

“You ready?” he asked.

Lane looked at the entrance, then back at him.

She was relaxed and open to the experience.

Anticipation had bloomed where nervousness once held court.

“Yes, Papa.”

His hand tightened around hers.

Inside, Provocateur stole her breath.

The entry lounge was beautiful and intimate, more luxurious than obscene, more art gallery than nightclub. Dark velvet seating curved around low tables. Gold sconces cast warm light against deep plum walls. Sheer curtains softened private alcoves. The air smelled like amber, leather, and roses. Music pulsed low beneath the murmur of conversation, sensual but not loud enough to crowd thought.

People moved through the space with a confidence Lane immediately recognized as chosen freedom.

Bodies of every size, shade, and presentation. Silk robes. Leather harnesses. Lace. Tailored suits. Bare shoulders. Thigh-high boots. Pearls. Gold. Tattoos. Shaved heads. Locs. Gray hair. Soft bellies. Muscled backs. Stretch marks. Confidence. Nerves. Desire.

No one looked ashamed. That’s what hit her hardest. Provocateur didn’t feel like a place where people came to hide what they wanted. It felt like a place where they came to stop apologizing for wanting.

A hostess in a black satin jumpsuit greeted Lennox by name, then turned to Lane with a smile that held warmth and professionalism. “Welcome to Provocateur, Ms. Sanders. We’re honored to have you.”

Lane glanced at Lennox. “Did you tell everybody my government name?”

“I made reservations.”

“Hmm.”

The hostess’s smile widened. “Your booth is ready.”

They followed her through a curtained archway into the main room. A stage sat at the center beneath a spill of low golden light. It was surrounded by intimate booths and tables arranged in tiers. The room felt theatrical and sacred, every detail curated for attention. Velvet. Brass. Dark wood. Candlelight. A ceiling painted like a night sky. Along the back wall, private balconies curved above the floor, shadowed but visible enough to make Lane wonder what stories lived up there.

Before they entered fully, Lennox leaned close. “Robes come off inside.”

Lane looked at him and she nodded. Lennox untied his robe first, sliding it from his shoulders with a calm that should’ve been illegal. His emerald satin pants caught the light, and several eyes turned immediately.

Lane swallowed as his hands moved to her belt. “May I?”

Her heart thudded. “Yes.”

He untied the robe slowly and drew it from her shoulders, the air touching her skin. So did attention; Lane felt the room notice.

Not in the ugly way she had known too young. Not the kind of attention that grabbed without permission. This was appreciation held at a distance. Admiration with manners. Desire contained by rules.

His mouth came close to her ear. “Look at you.”

Lane’s knees threatened treason.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Don’t what?”

“Make me blush in public.”