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The hand around my waist tightens, and I feel the eyes of other workers on us.
“Will you just listen to me, please? You’re not ready for this, Charlotte.”
In that moment, I hear Beau. I hear him telling me what I can and can’t handle, making decisions for me and taking away my right to think for myself. So I snap, tearing my body away from Emerson’s grasp.
“Iwill decide what I’m ready for. And my name is Charlie, not Charlotte.” My tone is harsh, biting out each word with anger before I stomp away, tearing open the front door with abandon. He’s quick on my heels, but I don’t dare look at him, even after he approaches me from behind, not touching me this time.
I’m too fired up to really absorb what’s happening around me. There are people working everywhere. They are laying tile and painting the walls while drills and other machines buzz loudly, echoing through the empty space.
“Emerson,” a male voice calls from the other side of the building. We pass through a lobby area with a tall desk and dark black tiles on the floor. Then we enter the main room, which reminds me of a dance club. There’s even a stage at the front, and a team of guys are installing the tallest stripper pole I’ve ever seen.
Along the sides of the room are doors and two hallway entrances, one on either side of the stage. There’s also a second floor with a wraparound balcony that lets those above look down at the club below. I can’t seem to stop looking at everything, trying to imagine what would go on here, what all the rooms are for and what is down those hallways.
“This must be Charlotte,” a male voice says as we approach a slender man in a suit.
He takes my hand and shakes it delicately, keeping his eyes on my face and not my breasts like the god of thunder outside.
“Charlotte, this is my partner, Garrett Porter.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply.
Unlike Emerson, Garrett has a warm smile, showing his teeth as he grins. With honey brown hair and a clean-shaven face, he has the look of someone who does a lot of business. He looks like a salesman, but with those scrutinizing eyes on me, I get the feeling he’s reading me.
Yep, he’s a salesman, all right.
“Is Maggie around? She has paperwork to give her,” Emerson asks.
“Yep, in the office.”
A broad, soft hand lands at the small of my back, but I’m still a little pissed at him, so I quickly step away, instantly missing the comforting touch.
“I’ll find it,” I mutter darkly. I turn back to find him clenching his jaw as he glares at me, and I’m overcome with a wave of disappointment, but I quickly brush it off.
Leaving him with the other men, I cross the open space, stepping over beams and tools, my shoes echoing with each step. Emerson doesn’t say anything as I head down the hallway that leads toward the back of the building, so I assume I’m going the right way.
But this isn’t just a regular hallway. It’s broad with doors on each side and large windows. As I pass the rooms, I take a peek in, but they are still empty, each about the size of a bedroom, and I find myself gulping down my nerves. Will they really let people just go into those rooms and…
I freeze, peering into one. The walls are painted a deep red and it’s still mostly bare, except for one large chair raised on a dais with gold decorative embellishments framing the red velvet seat. “Is that…” I say to myself, or at least I thought it was to myself.
A warm voice that is definitelynotEmerson’s finishes my sentence as he approaches me from behind.
“A throne,” Garrett answers plainly. I quickly spin around and stare at him. He has a sly grin on his face, as if he’s daring me to go inside. I glance down the hall for Emerson and when I notice he hasn’t followed and is still talking to the crew in the main room, I take Garrett up on his dare and step tentatively into the room.
“Why a throne?” I ask. It seems a little weird for a sex club. This isn’t a Renaissance fair.
“Why not?” he replies casually, like it’s obvious.
I swallow again. The chair is ginormous, and the platform it sits on has cushioned edges and plenty of space for…movement. I feel Garrett lean closer, his warm breath against my ear as he whispers, “Try it.”
“Me? No. I’m not really a ‘sit in a throne’ type of girl.”
“How can you know if you’ve never tried it?”
I pause, looking back at him. He’s challenging me, and I can’t quite tell if I really like this guy or sort of hate him. But I never turn down a challenge.
“Go ahead,” he continues. His hand is soft against my back as he presses me toward the chair.
“What is even the point?” I ask, relenting to his nudges. Crossing the room, I climb up the step and touch the golden arms of the broad chair. The first thought in my head is that this throne is for kings, larger-than-life men, monarchs and masters. But as my fingers glide along the ridges and peaks of the decor, I correct my train of thought.
