Chapter 5
JENNA
A short time earlier…
As soon as the Uber pulls away I immediately feel like I’ve made a mistake.
The club is tucked into a narrow alley off an unmarked side street, a set of sleek black doors set into matte concrete, guarded by a bouncer who looks like he could bench press a sedan.
Every single person waiting to get in is stupidly attractive. Glistening skin, sculpted bodies, daring little outfits that cling to lean frames like wet silk. Even the men look like they were genetically engineered for this place—chiseled jaws, dark suits, eyes sharp and hungry behind masks.
And the women... my god. They’re statuesque, leggy, and barely dressed. Not one of them looks like they’ve had to second-guess their thighs in a dressing room mirror. I tug down the hem of my tight black dress. It hugs every inch of my curves, and suddenly, I’m all too aware of every one of them.
Claire must sense it. She bumps her shoulder against mine and leans in close. “You look hot as hell,” she says. “And I swear to God, if you try to tell me otherwise, I will turn us both around and walk straight back to the apartment.”
I manage a weak smile. “You’re not scared?”
Claire laughs. “Terrified. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”
We wait our turn in line, inching closer to the door. I watch as the bouncer turns a couple away—too drunk or maybe just not up to whatever unspoken standard this place keeps. I imagine him looking us over and deciding I’m not the right shape. That I’m not... enough.
When we reach him, however, he lifts the velvet rope without a word, his eyes flicking from Claire to me. I expect judgment. Instead, there’s something closer to approval. He opens the door, and Claire shoots me a smug look.
“Told you,” she murmurs as we step inside. “No one could say no to a hottie like you.”
The interior is darker than I expected—low lighting, warm red tones, sleek, black accents. We step into a narrow hallway lined with doors on either side, and even though we’re barely past the threshold, I can already hear the sounds of pleasure.
Moans. Deep, guttural sounds of pleasure behind the walls. Skin slapping. A woman laughing, breathless and high. The sound of someone begging, soft and urgent.
I keep walking, heart hammering in my throat.
One of the doors has a panel of frosted glass, and as I glance sideways, I see the blurry silhouette of a couple tangled together.
Her back arched. His hands gripping her waist. It’s all suggestion—shadow and motion—but somehow it’s even more provocative than seeing the real thing.
My legs feel like they’ve forgotten how to work. Claire’s several steps ahead of me, walking with purpose, like she’s done this a dozen times.
I pause just for a second and remind myself how to breathe.
What am I doing here?
Is this a terrible idea?
Claire turns when she notices I’m not beside her anymore. She grins, a gleam of mischief in her eye. “Come on, babe,” she says. “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
I swallow hard and follow her in, each step feeling like a point of no return.
The hallway opens into a world unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Sultry shadows, crimson light, music with a bassline that pulses like a heartbeat. The air smells of perfume, sex, and something heady—like incense left to smolder too long. I follow Claire through the club’s curved interior.
A woman reclines in a swing suspended from black iron hooks, her thighs parted, two men tangled around her like vines.
One kisses her bare shoulder, slow and reverent.
The other slides her panties down her legs with a grin like he’s unwrapping a gift.
I can’t help but stare. She moans, the sound slipping beneath my skin like velvet heat.
Further down, a couple is pressed to a mirrored wall, oblivious to the audience. Her fingers rake through his hair, her dress hitched high.
Claire’s talking excitedly, but her voice is just background noise. I’m too overwhelmed—in a good way. My dress feels too tight yet not tight enough. I’m nervous, but more than that, I’m buzzing. Turned on. Every inch of my body alive.
We reach the main floor, and it’s stunning—sleek and polished, with black leather booths and low amber lights casting everything in soft gold. A chandelier of black crystal drips light above the dance floor, where bodies sway and grind in a hypnotic rhythm.
But it’s not just dancing. A woman straddles a man’s lap in one corner, his hands under her dress, her head tipped back in pleasure. No one seems to mind.
Claire’s beaming. “Isn’t this amazing?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“C’mon,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
She leads me to the bar. On the way, a masked woman locks eyes with me. She’s dancing alone, languid and sensual, like she knows exactly who she is. I feel awkward by comparison, like I’m pretending at confidence I don’t quite have.
Claire turns to me. “God, I’m so ready for some fun.”
“What kind of fun?” I ask.
She shrugs, grinning. “Last time I was here, I had a boyfriend. Tonight? Who knows.”
I imagine her getting scooped up within minutes, leaving me behind to fumble around this adult playground on my own.
I hate that the thought even crosses my mind, but I’m not like her.
She’s slender, fearless, magnetic. I’m curvy and cautious, and every time a man’s eyes slide over me, I wonder if they’re judging.
Still, my skin is humming, my thighs pressed tightly together beneath my dress. Something inside me stirs, hungry and unsure.
We settle onto the high stools at the bar. I need a drink—badly. Something to cool the heat licking at my spine. And something to shut up the voice in my head that keeps asking, What are you really looking for tonight, Jenna?
We order some drinks. They take the edge off just enough.
The bar is a show in itself. A few seats down, a woman with gleaming brown skin straddles her partner's lap. They kiss like they’ve forgotten anyone else exists.
His hand disappears beneath the slit of her dress and her breath catches—soft but audible.
Nothing is exposed, but the intimacy is unmistakable.
Her hips lift slightly, a stutter in her rhythm, and my body responds with a sharp ache low in my belly.
At a nearby table, a woman kisses two men—alternating between them like she’s trying to decide her favorite flavor. One whispers something into her ear and they all laugh. She stands, flanked by the pair, and they walk together toward a hallway draped in velvet curtains.
Claire follows my gaze and nudges me. “Want to follow them?”
“I was just… watching,” I reply, cheeks warm.
I’m not just watching. I’m imagining. I’m wondering what it would be like to be that bold. That wanted.
And then I feel a prickle on the back of my neck. Like someone’s watching me.
I glance up toward the floor above. There, at a sleek black booth on a mezzanine overlooking the main floor, sits a man in a tailored suit. His mask is elegant and severe, covering most of his face in glossy black, save for his mouth and a sharp jawline framed by a short, dark beard.
His eyes are locked on mine. Unflinching. Piercing.
My breath hitches. He doesn’t look away.
Something about his gaze—steady, unreadable, intense—sends a flutter straight to my core. He nods once. I smile back, automatic and unsure, heart thudding.
I want to look away.
I don’t.
Even from here, I can tell his body is fit. His shoulders are broad, his posture relaxed but controlled, like a man used to being in command.
Would a man like that be into someone like me?
I glance around. The women here are model-thin, draped in barely-there clothes, walking with the kind of confidence I’m still working on possessing.
I shift in my seat, aware of the curve of my thighs against the barstool, the swell of my chest in this tight black dress. I’m probably not his type.
But he’s still watching me.
Claire leans over and grabs my hand. “Let’s find a table before we get claimed.”
“Claimed?”
She rolls her eyes, grinning. “You know what I mean. We don’t have to settle for the first guys who hit on us.”
I laugh, grateful for the distraction. For her. But as she pulls me toward the low-lit lounge seating beyond the bar, I glance back.
The man’s still watching.
I wonder what it would feel like to be the one he chooses.
The bass thrums through my chest, syncing with the slight buzz in my veins. I swirl the ice in my glass, feeling the fizz and warmth of the drink bloom in my chest. Claire leans in, hair tumbling forward, eyes sparkling.
“God, I didn’t think I knew what I wanted tonight, but I do now.”
“Oh yeah?” I tease, raising a brow.
She laughs, a wicked sound. “Yeah. I want a hot guy to sweep me off my feet, pin me against a wall, and do absolutely whatever he wants to me. No names. No morning-after awkwardness. Just raw, anonymous pleasure.”
“Jesus, Claire.” I laugh, half scandalized, half turned on.
“What?” She shrugs, unfazed. “You come to a place like this to live out your fantasies.”
I take a sip, trying to steady the strange current inside me. It’s like something dormant has begun to stir. Like I’ve been handed a key to a room I didn’t know existed in me.
Claire chats away happily, and just as she bursts into laughter, two men slide uninvited into our booth.
They’re both in their early thirties, one wearing a suit with rumpled lapels and beer breath, the other with greasy hair slicked back, too many buttons undone, and a necklace that looks like it came from a gas station.
How the hell did they get in?
“Ladies,” the greasy one says, slurring a bit. “You look lonely.”
“We’re good,” I say politely, setting my drink down. “Why don’t you find your own table?”
They laugh like I’m flirting.
I glance up at the mezzanine.
He’s gone. The mysterious, magnetic masked man is no longer watching me. I search for him subtly, trying not to be obvious.
Nothing. A twinge of disappointment hums in my gut.
My eyes scan the crowd. Maybe I imagined how intense his gaze felt. Maybe it was just the atmosphere.
“C’mon,” the first one says, forcing me back into the uncomfortable moment. “Don’t be like that. We just wanted to say hi. This one—” he nods toward me, then glances back to his friend “—has legs for days. I’m a leg man.”
I press my lips together. Claire gives him a look, trying to play nice. “We were just catching up, actually.”
“Even better. We’ll join you.” He leans in. “Double date.”
I try again. “We’d prefer to sit alone. Thanks.”
The greasy one doesn’t move. His eyes drop to my chest, lingering there. “Don’t be a bitch.”
Something flares in me, and I shift my weight, square to him. “I’m not interested. Leave.”
His face hardens. “You’re lucky anybody in this place is showing interest in you,” he mutters, grabbing my wrist.
I slowly look down at his hand. “You’ve got about two seconds to let go.”
He pulls me toward him. “You need a little attention. Maybe then you wouldn’t walk around acting like you’re hot shit.”
I yank my hand back, seething. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He laughs and gestures vaguely toward my hips.
I open my mouth to tell him off—loudly—but before I can speak, a hand slams down on his shoulder. Hard.
He startles, jerking slightly.
It’s none other than the masked man who’d been staring at me.
Now he’s here. And he’s not screwing around.