Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Brie
“It?” His eyes light with mischief.
I should’ve known he’d push. We’re still in his office, the blueprints spread before us, his question posed like a dare.
“Sex,” I answer, chin-raised.
He’s toying with me. Taunting.
The word lands heavy between us, humid as breath against glass. The air changes—thicker, slower—as though the room itself waits for my answer.
“Lust.” He steps closer, his height and presence cornering me. “When you say it, that’s what you’re choosing to assign a meaningless pronoun.” His fingers lightly tousle my hair and a shiver rolls down my spine. “Am I right?”
Need unfurls down my spine, pooling low, the ache both pleasure and warning. The backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm.
“If it’s only lust, what’s the harm?”
His question is valid. I’ve made a point of refusing to be precious about sex.
It’s a physical act and in the right circumstances serves as currency, desire the gold standard.
Sex being one of the few commodities that’s less valuable after the trade.
Thinking of it that way hardens my emotions, akin to armor.
His lips brush my temple and my knees go weak.
“If it’s only sex, we have options. The desk. This console. The billiard table.” My eyes close, lost in his seductive, honeyed, throaty voice and the warmth from his roaming hand along my hip over the curve of my bottom. “A wide selection of rooms with toys.”
My eyes snap open. The open safe, the vault drenched in darkness, the stainless metal cold and impenetrable.
“My vote is for—”
“We have work to do.” If I let him keep going, that’s all I’ll think about for the rest of the day.
I step back, breath more shallow and rapid than it should be. The blueprints crinkle when I grab them, the paper thin and malleable.
“But it’s not just sex with us, is it?”
I move to step away, careful to keep my back to him, but his strong hand clasps my elbow.
“That’s why you ran?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” His hold on my elbow loosens and I lower my arm, but still stand there, too close. The thin layer of dust on the blueprints is like grit over silk, and I focus on what’s important.
“I left because I had a job.”
Never mind that he’s touching on truths.
I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t say goodbye because that felt too hard.
It shouldn’t have been. I could’ve told him that I needed to get home and I’d call him and then it would’ve been a closed loop.
He would’ve found the number I gave him to be incorrect and he would’ve assumed I wasn’t interested and it would’ve effectively closed the door, but I left mysteriously, without a goodbye, and maybe a small part of me hoped he’d search, but I also believed he would move on.
And now?
There’s a job to be done and my colleagues are in the building next door.
Hormones are playing with my head and creating an aching need that it’s not the time or place to satisfy.
I stride to the billiard table and unroll the plans, spreading them across the smooth surface.
“Can you turn on the light?” A forest green glass light hangs over the table, and I need the light to better see the faded blue lines.
Seconds later, golden light coats the faded paper and I pinpoint the entrance, gaining my bearings, noting the walls, the hallways, elevator shafts, and rooms.
“Perhaps it will work best if I study these while you give me the tour.”
He moves to stand beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm. “Of course.” His tone has shifted to something more professional, though the thermal energy between us still radiates like the barrel on a smoking gun. “We’ll start with the main floor and work our way down.”
I fold the blueprints carefully, creating manageable sections. “Lead the way.”
The tour begins methodically. Adrien shows me through the main entertaining areas—the grand salon with its crystal chandeliers and velvet furnishings, the smaller intimate rooms with their own unique themes, the bar area with its gleaming mahogany surfaces.
Everything matches the blueprints perfectly.
The building’s bones are solid, the renovations expertly done.
The hallways are wider than they appear on the blueprints, with recessed lighting that creates pools of warm amber. Cameras are discreetly positioned at regular intervals—for security, Adrien explains, though I wonder what else they might capture.
“Access to the footage? All in the control room?” I ask casually.
“Restricted to myself, management, and the security team. Privacy is paramount. The fourth and fifth floors house the private suites,” Adrien explains as we climb the curved staircase. “Each room has been designed for specific...preferences.”
The air shifts as we ascend—heavier, headier. That bergamot and cedar scent intensifies, layered now with something warmer. Vanilla. Amber. Even lust, apparently, is branded here.
The silence on these floors is different from the rest of the building.
Thicker. More deliberate. Soundproofing, I realize, designed to contain whatever happens behind these doors.
But with the club closed, with no members present, the silence feels almost sacred.
Like walking through a cathedral built to pleasure rather than prayer.
We pass open doors that hint rather than show—a silk rope coiled neatly on a marble console, a velvet mask resting beside champagne flutes, the ghost of perfume hanging in the air. The building itself feels alive, pulsing with remembered heat even in its emptiness.
“How are the rooms assigned?” I ask, keeping my voice professional.
“Members book in advance. We have a concierge who manages the suites, coordinates preferences, ensures everything is prepared.” He pauses at a door with a small brass plate: Venetian. “Tiffany, our concierge, would normally handle this kind of tour, but given it’s Monday…”
“She’s not here,” I finish.
“No one is.” His gaze holds mine for a beat too long. “Just us.”
The implication hangs between us. Alone. In a building designed for intimacy. Surrounded by rooms that exist solely for the exploration of desire.
He scans his access card and the door opens soundlessly.
The room beyond stops me cold.
It’s opulent without being gaudy—all jewel tones and rich textures.
Deep sapphire velvet curtains frame floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
A four-poster bed dominates the space, its posts carved from dark mahogany, its linens the color of cream and champagne.
Candlelight—motion-activated, I suspect—flickers from recessed alcoves, casting amber shadows across walls painted the deep blue-green of Venetian lagoons.
But it’s the details that betray the room’s true purpose.
Discreet anchor points in the bedposts, so subtle I almost miss them. A chaise longue positioned with deliberate angles to the mirrors—I count three—angled to multiply and fragment. A cabinet against the far wall, lacquered black, its contents hidden but its purpose clear from the ornate lock.
“Soundproofed,” Adrien says quietly, watching me take it in. “Temperature controlled. The windows are one-way glass—our members can see out, but no one can see in.” He moves deeper into the room. “Everything is designed to create a space completely removed from the outside world.”
I follow slowly, hyperaware of his presence, of the door closing behind us with a soft pneumatic hiss. The carpet is thick enough to silence footsteps. Everything is designed to heighten sensation—the lowered lighting, the subtle scent of oud and roses, the way sound seems to pool and thicken.
My tactical mind catalogs automatically: one entrance, no emergency exits visible, two visual blind spots from where I’m standing—near the bathroom door and behind the bed’s canopy.
But beneath the professional assessment runs something else.
A visceral awareness of what this room is designed for.
Of pleasure choreographed and surrender invited.
“What happens here?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Whatever our members desire.” He’s closer now. I didn’t hear him move. “With consent. Always with consent.”
I turn to face him, and the mirrors catch us—multiple versions of this moment, fractured and multiplied.
Professional Brie in her tailored blazer.
Adrien in his perfectly cut suit. But our reflections betray us: the small space between our bodies, the way his gaze tracks down my throat to my collarbone, the tension in my shoulders that has nothing to do with the assignment.
I force myself to move away, toward the cabinet. “May I?”
He produces a small key, crosses to unlock it.
The doors open to reveal an array of implements arranged with the precision of surgical instruments.
Silk restraints in jewel tones that match the room’s palette.
Leather cuffs lined with the softest suede.
Items I recognize from training—not for use, but for awareness. And some I don’t recognize at all.
Everything is high-end, expensive, designed for pleasure and safety in equal measure.
“Our concierge stocks the suites based on member preferences,” he explains, his voice carefully neutral. “Everything is sterilized between uses. Medical-grade protocols.”
“Your concierge knows what they want?” I ask, reaching out to touch a length of silk rope before pulling my hand back.
“Tiffany makes it her business to know. Anticipation is part of the service.” He closes the cabinet, locks it. “The fantasy begins before they arrive.”
“One person?”
“By design,” he says.
My mind catalogs this professionally—possible breach point, potential blackmail leverage. But my body registers something else entirely. The air in here is thick, charged. My skin feels too tight. Every surface seems designed for touch, for surrender.