Chapter Eleven Gemma
Chapter Eleven
Gemma
I fish out the keys to my Paddington flat and collapse on my sofa the moment I cross the threshold. The week dragged on at a snail’s pace, and I only caught glimpses of Max in passing. But every time I tried to approach him, I was always interrupted.
I’ve watched him swan through the office in his sleek designer suits. The man is so handsome, I swear he could cause a heart attack just from a glance.
The most infuriating part? He knows exactly how good he looks.
On the rare occasion we locked eyes in the corridor or shared kitchenette, he shot me that arrogant smirk, like he knows my career is hanging in the balance and he holds the power.
I bet the bastard gets off on it.
Louise and Theo gave their pitch this afternoon.
It was decent—not incredible, but I can’t deny that they did a good job, as much as it pains me to admit it.
Max hasn’t made his decision yet, and ever since, Louise has been circling him like a cat in heat.
Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t rubbed up against him or dropped down on all fours.
I need to find the right moment with Max, away from prying eyes. A chance to make my case without the risk of Louise nearby.
My phone vibrates and I pull it from my pocket to find a ping from KinkApp. Perhaps this is exactly what I need to escape the chaos swirling around me.
A quick shag to relieve the stress.
I swipe to check his profile. Tim. Thirty-eight. He’s cute—tall, built, with the right interests ticked. Size king, which is important. Into toys, breath play, foot fetish (not my usual thing, but who am I to yuck someone’s yum? I peer at my feet—not bad), and he’s open to arse play.
KinkApp is a paid dating app, and most users are working professionals at an executive level. Listing club memberships in profiles is practically a status symbol in London’s scene.
Scanning Tim’s profile, I spot Ruby Lounge amongst his memberships.
I know it well—the exclusive club sits above the Mayfair Lounge, my regular spot with Anna and April.
There’s a separate entrance behind the Mayfair, which is for members only, and they don’t let just anyone through those doors.
The vetting process is rigorous—interviews, background checks, the works.
It’s expensive, but safe play is top priority.
Particularly when it comes to strangers.
If I’m going to mess around, Ruby Lounge is my preferred meeting place. I refuse to invite men into my personal space. It’s a safety precaution. I don’t like them to know where I live. That’s something my mum instilled in me from an early age, with good reason.
The girls only know half of what really goes on at Ruby Lounge. I’ve divulged some details, but it’s much more my scene than theirs.
Fortunately for Tim, I’m also a member.
His photos show a body covered in tattoos and muscle, neatly trimmed facial hair, and dark eyes that hold promise. He’s cute enough to help me forget my problems for a night.
I accept his ping and moments later, three dots appear, indicating he’s typing a message.
Tim: Hey.
Groundbreaking chat, Tim. Sometimes being hot really is enough.
Me: Hey.
Tim: Saw your profile and couldn’t scroll past without saying hi. You’re absolutely stunning. Looks like we’re not too far from each other—fancy a drink?
I check the time. 6:45 p.m. I consider his offer. Can I be bothered?
I mull it over.
Screw it.
My thumbs fly across the screen.
Me: Sure. Time and place?
Tim: You a member at Ruby Lounge?
It’s on my profile. He knows I am.
Me: Yes.
Tim: I’ll meet you at the bar at nine.
That gives me plenty of time to relax, eat, and get ready. Perfect.
Me: See you then.
Tim: I can’t wait.
I’ve been using KinkApp for a while now, and while I’ve encountered some truly horrendous—not to mention downright insane—men, the good times have definitely outweighed the bad.
At work, I’m career-oriented, composed, corporate Gemma. But after hours? That’s where I really come out to play.
Nighttime is when I let my teeth show.
In bed is where I can truly be myself. Just pure pleasure and power.
I had the whole long-term relationship thing with my university boyfriend, Todd, from twenty-two to twenty-nine.
After breaking up, I promised myself I’d enjoy every aspect of my life.
Particularly sex. We were happy enough, doing the usual couple things that we were raised to believe were the right thing to do.
Ugh.
Don’t even get me started on societal “shoulds.”
Todd was lovely. He had all the right qualities—a promising future as a partner in his father’s law firm in Oxford, which he was groomed to take over. He came from money, had great friends, and an excellent sense of humor. But there was one significant area where he fell short: sex.
He consistently underdelivered in that department.
Communication was never a problem; sex was.
I’m the type who speaks my mind. I’m honest, sometimes to a fault.
I’d never fake an orgasm just to please a man or boost his ego—sex is a two-way street.
I’m just as entitled to an orgasm as my partner is.
It was Todd’s unwillingness to explore new experiences, things that might feel good but aren’t typically discussed among friends, that was the real issue.
He was just so.… beige. Bland. Boring, same old day-in, day-out kind of guy.
I couldn’t handle it anymore. So, I broke it off.
I sat by as our friends got engaged, teasing us that You’re next!
and I’d think to myself, This can’t be my future.
I can’t do this for the rest of my life.
Todd was devastated. People couldn’t understand why sex was so important, but it’s not until you’re having bad sex that you realize how damaging it is to you—mind, body, and soul.
April and Anna were my rock throughout that time.
They understood. They’ve always had my back and stood by me through everything, accepting every part of me—no questions asked.
While others might raise their eyebrows at my sex life, Anna and April pour more margaritas and ask for details.
They love me for exactly who I am, not who they think I should be.
Hot oil spits and sizzles as I lay the eye fillet in the pan, searing each side to perfection. I spoon the steamed broccoli and carrots onto my plate, then settle in to eat before getting ready for Tim.
I swap my glasses for contacts and wipe away the days makeup, opting to apply a fresh coat. I paint my lips their usual crimson. There’s something about red lipstick. The way it transforms a mouth into a weapon.
I tousle my hair then quickly pull some daily tarot cards—a ritual I’ve come to love, kind of like journaling—before I slip into a slinky moss-green dress, which hugs every curve.
The delicate spaghetti straps expose my collarbones, which are dusted with a hint of champagne shimmer. I look sexy and sensual.
Grabbing my black shawl, I step into a pair of pumps, and head out.
I arrive outside Ruby Lounge just past nine.
Stepping through the unmarked black doors, I enter a reception area of gleaming marble floors and polished, blacked-out mirror walls.
The club is made up of four designed sections. The sleek and minimal reception area leads to the main lounge, where sensual music plays throughout.
In the center of the room is a sunken pit—the crown jewel of the space.
An enormous lounge sprawls across it. Women roll their hips while riding cocks.
Men sit back, heads reclined and eyes closed as mouths work eagerly in their laps.
Nearby, two women are held open, legs pinned by greedy hands while others take their time, feasting on their pussies without shame.
On surrounding sofas, members drink, hands and mouths exploring each other in plain view.
To the left, a towering cross stands. It’s where members are bound and blindfolded, their bodies offered up to be devoured, flogged, spanked, or whipped—depending on the kink. But tonight, it sits empty.
Past this open playground is a long corridor lined with doors to private rooms, leading to the main bar at the rear of the building—which is where I’m headed.
As I move through the long corridor, I hear muffled screams and moans of pleasure, pain, or both.
Leather-upholstered stools curve around the bar, which is lined with expensive liquor.
I clench my thighs when I spot a woman surrender to pleasure in a booth situated at the far corner of the room. One man is biting and sucking her heavy breasts while another worships between her legs. Her head’s thrown back, lost in sensation.
Next to her, a woman straddles another woman, her dress hiked up around her hips while her partner’s hand disappears up her skirt. Her grip on the other woman’s shoulders is tight as she grinds her hips, moaning.
I take a seat at the bar, ordering a flute of bubbly. The bartender’s just tipping champagne into my glass when fabric brushes against my bare arm.
I turn, ready to meet Tim.
But the universe, it seems, has other plans.
Because standing there, in all his arrogant glory, is Max Fucking Browne.