Chapter 21
Cece
Istood on the sidewalk, staring up at the nondescript building that housed Rafe's secret world.
My heart thrashed against my ribs like it was trying to escape, while a peculiar mix of excitement and fear flooded my system.
The unmarked door revealed nothing about what waited on the other side, and despite my bold declaration in the car, my feet suddenly felt rooted to the concrete.
Rafe's hand found the small of my back, warm and steady, grounding me in the moment as he leaned down to whisper against my ear. "We can still leave."
"No," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "I want to see this part of you."
He nodded once and as he guided me toward the door, his palm never left the small of my back. A man built like a mountain stood guard at the door, his expression neutral until he spotted Rafe. Recognition sparked in his eyes, followed by a respectful nod.
"Mr. de Luca," he said, stepping aside without checking any ID or membership card. "Good to see you again."
"Marcus," Rafe replied with an easy familiarity that confirmed he was no stranger here.
We stepped inside, and the first thing that hit me was the music—low, pulsing beats that seemed to reverberate directly in my core. The lighting was dim but not dark, bathing everything in a warm glow that felt both intimate and exposing.
Rafe led me through a sleek reception area where a woman in a form-fitting black dress smiled at him before buzzing us through an inner door. "Welcome back, Mr. de Luca," she said, her eyes sliding to me with undisguised curiosity. "Any special requests tonight?"
"The Garnet Room," he replied, his voice tight with what might have been nervousness.
She nodded and pressed a button beneath her desk. "It's ready for you."
As we moved deeper into the club, my senses struggled to process everything at once.
The main room opened before us like a fantasy come to life—plush seating arrangements scattered throughout, a bar along one wall serving drinks in crystal glasses, and everywhere I looked, people engaged in various stages of intimacy.
To my right, a woman straddled a man on a leather chaise, her dress hiked up to her waist as she moved on him in slow, deliberate circles.
They were fully clothed except for where they joined, making the act seem somehow more erotic than if they'd been naked.
Neither seemed to care who watched; in fact, the woman's head was thrown back, her lips parted in pleasure as a small audience observed.
My cheeks burned, but I couldn't look away. The shamelessness of it, the pure abandonment to pleasure, stirred something inside me I hadn't known existed.
"Are you okay?" Rafe asked, his mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. In truth, I was overwhelmed but not in the way I'd expected.
Under normal circumstances, walking into a room full of strangers having sex would have sent me straight back out the door.
But with Rafe beside me, his hand anchoring me, I felt a strange sense of safety.
Like I was protected not just from others, but from my own inhibitions.
As we moved through the space, I couldn't help noticing how people reacted to Rafe.
Nods of acknowledgement, respectful distance, curious glances that were quickly averted when he looked their way.
He carried himself with the same commanding presence he always had, but here it seemed amplified, as if this environment belonged to him in some fundamental way.
"You come here often," I said.
His eyes met mine. "Yes."
"Alone?"
"Always."
That single word shouldn't have pleased me as much as it did.
He guided me past a circular pit filled with cushions where three couples engaged in a tangle of limbs that made it difficult to tell where one body ended and another began.
The sounds they made—deep groans, breathless gasps, sharp cries of pleasure—sent shivers down my spine.
I squeezed my thighs together, shocked by how aroused I already was just from watching.
Rafe noticed, because of course he did. His hand slid from my back to grip my hip, fingers digging in slightly. "How are you feeling?" he asked, voice deeper than usual.
"Like I might spontaneously combust," I admitted.
His lips quirked in that almost-smile I was coming to crave. "We can stop and watch anywhere that interests you."
I glanced around, taking in the various scenes playing out.
On a raised platform across the room, a woman was bent over an ornate bench, her wrists bound above her head while a man stood behind her, his hand delivering measured slaps to her ass that turned her skin a delicate pink.
The woman's face was transported with pleasure, her mouth forming a perfect "O" with each impact.
I wasn't interested in pain, but the dynamic between them—the surrender, the trust—made my breath catch.
"I want to see what you want to show me," I said, turning back to Rafe.
Something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes. "This way."
He led me down a corridor lined with doors—some open to reveal private scenes, others closed with small lights above them indicating occupation.
We finally stopped at a door near the end of the hall, a small garnet-colored stone embedded in its center.
Rafe hesitated. "This is one of the voyeur rooms," he explained in a low voice.
"There's a two-way mirror inside. The couple on the other side knows they're being watched but they can't see who's watching. "
My pulse quickened. "And you've been here before? To this specific room?"
Eyes never leaving mine, he nodded. "Yes."
"With other women?"
"No," he said firmly. "Never. I told you, I always come alone."
I believed him, which was ridiculous considering our entire relationship was built on blackmail and manipulation.
But standing there, watching him struggle to share this part of himself with me, I couldn't help but feel we'd crossed some invisible line.
This wasn't the Rafe who moved through business meetings like a shark through water.
This was a man showing me his most private self, vulnerable in a way I hadn't thought possible.
"Let's go in," I said.
Relief softened his features for a brief moment before he composed himself again.
He opened the door, ushering me into a small, dimly lit room.
The space was simple but luxurious—a plush sofa upholstered in deep red leather, positioned to face a large mirror that took up most of the opposite wall.
Through the glass, I could see an elegantly appointed bedroom where a couple was already engaged.
The woman was on her back on a massive bed, her wrists bound to the headboard with what looked like silk scarves.
She wore nothing but a thin gold chain around her waist, the metal catching the light as she writhed beneath her partner's touch.
The man straddled her thighs, fully naked, his hands exploring her body with deliberate slowness that had her arching up.
I couldn't look away. The woman was beautiful—all soft curves and smooth skin that gleamed with a light sheen of sweat.
The man worshipped her body with his hands and mouth, tracing patterns down her stomach, across her breasts, between her thighs.
Though she was restrained, there was nothing degrading about it; this was clearly about prolonging pleasure, not control.
"Is this your thing?" I asked, turning to face Rafe. "Watching?"
He stood with hands in his pockets, body tense as if bracing for judgment. "Yes," he admitted, meeting my gaze steadily despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "I like to observe. To see pleasure without—"
"Without being vulnerable yourself," I finished for him.
Surprise crossed his face, followed by a rueful smile. "I was going to say without complication, but you might be right."
I turned back to the mirror, watching as the man lowered his head between the woman’s legs, drawing a desperate cry from her lips. "How does it work?" I asked, my voice huskier than I'd liked. "Do they know exactly who's watching?"
"No," Rafe moved to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"They know the room is being used, but not by whom.
It's part of the thrill for them—being seen but not seeing.
For me..." He hesitated. "For me, it's about witnessing intimacy without the expectation of participation. "
I nodded, absorbing this new facet of the man I'd married. It made a strange kind of sense—Rafe, who kept everyone at arm's length, who controlled every interaction with meticulous precision, finding release in watching others surrender to pleasure while maintaining his own distance.
"Does it bother you?" he asked, a rare uncertainty in his voice.
"No," I said honestly. "It's actually kind of hot."
His breath caught, and though I couldn’t see it, I felt his intense stare on my face. On the other side of the glass, the man had moved up to kiss the woman deeply while his hand worked between her legs in rhythmic strokes that had her straining against her bonds.
I couldn't help it; my breathing became shallow and quick.
Heat pooled between my legs, made worse by the knowledge that nothing but the thin silk of my dress stood between me and complete exposure.
I shifted from one foot to the other, pressing my thighs together in a futile attempt to ease the building pressure.
Rafe noticed immediately. Of course he did. "How do you feel?" he asked, his voice a low grumble next to my ear.
I struggled to articulate my response. How did I feel? Like my skin was too tight for my body. Like every nerve ending had been exposed to air. Like I might die if I didn't get some relief soon.
"I'm turned on," I finally admitted, the words feeling both inadequate and terrifyingly honest.