Chapter 15 The Viewing Tower
THE VIEWING TOWER
EMERY
I’m used to feeling numb. That’s my constant.
My baseline. I don’t remember the last time that I cried, that I shed a tear.
Everything that I’ve been feeling since laying my eyes on Damon has been alien, foreign.
These emotions, dwelled in the innermost parts of my psyche, were never strong enough to break the surface. To ascend into the real world.
Whether I kept them hidden, or they were too weak to emerge themselves, is still unknown. But what I do know is that the heart in my chest has never beaten with such urgency before. It's never rushed blood this fast through my system. It’s never felt as if it were my own. Until now.
For twenty-eight years, I’ve led with my head. I’ve made decisions based on fact and logic. It wasn’t a choice. I didn’t decide to ignore the wishes of my heart. I simply had none.
A dim LED sign illuminates the dark alley ahead as Damon pulls up to the curb. I’m here because I decided to be here. With my heart. And perhaps another, more boisterous, organ.
“The Charlatan?” I read the sign as Damon hands the valet attendant his keys. “I thought you said we were going to…” I pause, recalling the name. “Club Hades?”
Damon gives me a knowing grin. “Club Hades doesn’t exist, Miss Jones. Not on paper, at least.” I frown as we approach the entrance, and Damon pulls out a matte black card with gold foiling. He hands it to the guard. “It might be expired.”
The bouncer remains stoic as he says, “You’ll have to renew at the desk.” He unclips the velvet rope. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Cavanaugh.” He pauses. “And welcome back.”
Damon finds my hand as we walk into the club.
I draw in a sharp breath when we enter the establishment.
Rich, decadent shades of red and purple decorate the room.
I was expecting a club like Lux with rave music and the scent of booze and cigarettes.
Instead, to the left of the membership desk, is a 1920s-inspired lounge with private alcoves tucked along the sides, a stage at the far side of the room, and a four-piece jazz band playing classics I’ve heard before on the radio.
Pristine leather couches and chaises sit around glass tables, and a dozen men and women, radiating wealth and prestige, sip on cocktails.
Every detail is opulent, regal even. I tighten my coat around myself, feeling like a fish out of water. Expensive, luxurious water.
“I need to renew my membership,” Damon says, stopping us at the desk. The two attendants, both dressed like runway models, stare up at Damon. “Quickly, please.”
“Mr. Cavanaugh.” The blonde gives Damon a wide smile. “We’ve been wondering if we’d see you again.” She glances at me, and I stiffen. “A guest?”
“For now,” he says, checking his watch. “Has the schedule changed since I’ve last been here?”
The blonde chuckles. “Madame Vee doesn’t like change.
” She takes Damon’s metal card off the counter and replaces it with a hard stock card.
“The Pit opens in five. Dominic will let you in.” Damon picks up the temporary pass.
“Just stop by on your way out.” She calls over another girl. “Can we take your jackets?”
“Miss Jones?” Damon shrugs off his heather gray overcoat, handing it to the woman.
“No, thank you,” I whisper, needing a layer of protection. Plus, I am not dressed nearly nice enough to remove my jacket. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” Damon asks. “It can get…hot in there.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, flashing the gorgeous women behind the desk a small smile. To Damon, I quietly add, “I feel underdressed.”
He chuckles to himself, whispering back. “Once we’re inside, you’re going to feel overdressed.” Because, supposedly, everyone will be naked. I don’t strip off my jacket, blushing at the thought. “Suit yourself.”
“Enjoy the show.” The blonde’s flirty gaze bounces between me and Damon. “It should be a good one.”
“The show?” I ask in a hushed tone as Damon regrips my hands, leading me through the lounge toward another guard situated at the far end of the room. “I’m so confused.”
“Patience, Miss Jones,” Damon says, handing the card to the guard who pockets it. He punches in a code on the door, a mechanical huff of air releases as it creaks open. Damon cranes his neck, brimming with amusement as he asks, “Ready?”
The second we step through the threshold, an overpowering balmy scent of sex and debauchery permeates the air. Overlapping moans, some soft, some rough, float into my ears, the erotic pants immediately causing my heart to race and my core to clench.
“Welcome to Club Hades, Miss Jones,” Damon rasps as I take in my surroundings.
Plush, blood-red carpet softens our footsteps as we stride down the rococo-inspired halls, intricate crown molding shading the ceilings, rustic sconces with flickering candles the only source of light.
The ruby walls guide us down a labyrinth of sin and sensuality, the whimpering breaths of euphoria getting louder as we turn the corner.
“These are The Playrooms,” Damon explains as we enter a long hallway, eight separate rooms book ending the dark path.
I swallow, heart racing with wonder and winding excitement as we slowly stroll past the double-paned glass walls.
Some curtains are drawn closed, and no sounds escape, but I know that something filthy is happening mere inches away from me.
Silently, I detach from Damon’s hold and float toward a room where the curtain is drawn open, the sliding door open but a fraction.
Like a twisted anthropologist studying a remote and distant tribe, I stop in front of Playroom Five.
A part of me feels uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t be here watching, gawking, and examining their ritual.
But the curtain is open. It’s an invitation.
My mouth dries as I watch the young woman on the bed, her limbs tied with thick rope to the posts.
A man straddles her, his erect cock resting atop her unkempt bush.
In his hand, a candle burns bright, a puddle of hot wax pooling on the surface.
The woman struggles against the restraints, her lust-filled eyes locked on the man’s as she begs.
“Please, Daddy…”
Heat rushes to my core, and I can feel my panties dampen as he grins down at her, tilting the candle, the wax slowly dripping into the valley between her heaving breasts. I can’t look away.
“Temperature play,” Damon explains, hovering behind me as he wraps his arm around my waist. His hushed words tickle the slope of my neck, a spider-like shiver crawling down my spine as I lean into his touch. “Do you like what you see, mami?”
“Mhmm…” I hum, overwhelmed by the sight of it all. My skin burns under my jacket as heat flows through my body.
Damon releases a dark, growling chuckle under his breath, grazing the side of my head with his stubble. “Of course you do, my dirty little slut.”
My breath hitches, but I don’t say a word. What is there to say? It’s like I’m in a dream. An illusion showing me all the wicked things I wish I could experience. But I don’t need to wish. Not anymore.
“Let’s keep going,” Damon says, turning us back down the hall toward a symphony of overlapping primal groans and provocative pants. My body vibrates, literally shaking my limbs from pure exhilaration as an open space full of dozens of licentious bodies comes into view. “This is The Playground.”
I swallow a gasp as a carnal jungle appears before me.
My gaze darts to all corners of the room, unable to focus, unable to concentrate.
On the couch, a black-haired goddess grips the shoulders of a man whose cock thrusts in and out of her pussy, another man filling her ass, the slaps rippling her skin.
On the table, a young woman rides the slurping lips of another woman being fucked, her head thrown back as she cries from pure pleasure.
My head spins from the chaotic beauty of it all.
It’s like a Renaissance painting. No matter where I look, I see something new.
A detail I’ve previously missed. Like the cock rings squeezing one man’s balls so tight they look like they’ll explode.
Like the clamps on one woman’s nipple, the surrounding skin a decadent shade of red and blue.
With every glance, I see more. More pleasure. More pain. More fucking life.
“Are you wet right now, Miss Jones?” Damon’s rough voice amps up my heartbeat, and I turn to face him, cheeks flush with arousal.
A dark gleam coats his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.
” I’m hoping he’ll touch me. That he’ll put his hands on any part of me.
But he doesn’t. He just smiles. “We should continue.” He nods down the hall toward a black wooden door. “The Tower is this way.”
“The Tower?” I ask, trailing behind him as I shrug off my coat, unable to remain cocooned any longer.
“The Viewing Tower,” Damon elaborates, opening the door to a modernized amphitheater.
Rows upon rows of velvet couches ascend the slope of the room, overlooking a caged stage on the bottom level.
I swallow, coating my parched mouth as a nude woman enters the stage and kneels in the center, palms resting on her thighs, her head hung low.
Damon offers me his hand as we climb the stairs toward empty seats. “We call that The Pit.”
“All of these people…” My gaze sweeps across the dozens of occupied seats. “They’re here to watch?”
“Correct. It’s—” Damon’s explanation gets cut short when a deep, melodic British voice calls out his name.