Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Skye
The club unfolds before me like a living labyrinth, each corridor revealing new dimensions of pleasure and power.
I wander through spaces designed for exhibition—areas where beautiful people display their desires under artful lighting.
Some patrons converse in low voices while others simply observe, their eyes hungry for connection or entertainment.
I pass a room where a woman suspended in elaborate rope work hovers above a transfixed audience. The artistry is undeniable—her body transformed into a living sculpture—but it doesn't stir anything within me beyond aesthetic appreciation.
Another space features two women and a man engaged in a carefully choreographed dance of intimacy. Their movements are beautiful but performative, lacking the raw emotional connection that makes my heart race when I'm with Dom.
I turn down a quieter corridor, drawn by the hushed energy emanating from a partially open door.
The room beyond is bathed in warm amber light, the space arranged like a theater with tiered seating facing a central platform.
Unlike the other exhibitions, this one features only two people—a man in a tailored suit seated in a throne-like chair and a beautiful woman standing on the other side of the room.
Something about their dynamic freezes me in place. The woman wears only a delicate collar and black lace underwear, but it's not her near-nakedness that captivates me—it's the absolute surrender in her posture, the way she looks up at him with complete trust and devotion.
The man says something too quiet for me to hear, and the woman immediately lowers herself to hands and knees. When she crawls toward him, her movements are both submissive and sensual, proud even in her surrender.
My mouth goes dry. Heat blooms across my skin as I watch her approach him, place her cheek against his knee, close her eyes in perfect contentment when he strokes her hair. The intimacy between them is electric, more intense than any of the explicit acts I've glimpsed elsewhere.
I suddenly see myself in her place—approaching Dom on hands and knees, offering him not just my body but my surrender, my trust. The image hits me with unexpected force, a lightning strike of desire so powerful my knees weaken.
This isn't just about pleasing Dom. This is about me—what I want, what I need.
The realization washes over me like a warm wave.
I've been thinking of dominance and submission as his kink, something I could learn to accommodate.
But watching this couple, feeling my own response to their dynamic, I understand with sudden clarity—this is my kink too.
When the woman rises at his command and straddles him, their connection so complete they might be a single entity, I force myself to turn away. My skin feels too tight, my breath shallow and quick. I need air. I need time to process this revelation about myself.
I stumble down the corridor, my thoughts racing faster than my feet can carry me.
The image of the woman—so powerful in her surrender, so complete in her trust—burns in my mind.
And worse—better?—I can't stop superimposing myself in her place, imagining Dom's strong hands guiding me, his voice commanding me.
The club suddenly feels too warm, too close. People brush past me, but I barely register their presence. My body is here, but my mind is lost in possibilities I never allowed myself to consider before.
The show has concluded by the time I make my way back to the viewing lounge where Harper performed. I wait outside, trying to compose myself, when people slowly start coming out and among them, looking satisfied and slightly dazed, is Logan.
Our eyes meet. Recognition flashes across his face, followed by something more calculating. He approaches with the confident stride of a man who's never questioned his right to occupy space.
"Skye?" His voice is smooth, friendly. Nothing in his demeanor suggests he's just watched his best friend's daughter perform.
"Logan." I manage a neutral tone.
"What are you doing here? Is Dom here? Does he know you're here?" His questions fly at me.
"No, he's not here and no, he doesn't know I'm here." I cross my arms. "I can't exactly tell him either because I came here with Harper." I narrow my eyes. "Which, by the way, I saw you in there. Does she know you're here? Is there something going on?"
"No, she doesn't know, and I would like to keep it that way." He runs a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to watch her but when I saw her, I couldn't not watch." His lips curve into a knowing smile. "I'm sure you of all people understand what that's like."
Heat floods my face. It's obvious he's talking about me and Dom and this whole fucked up situation.
"Fuck, Logan." I clench my fists at my sides. "I won't say anything, but you shouldn't watch her, at least not without her knowing. And damn you for putting me in this situation."
"I'm sorry." He flashes that fucking boyish smile that could—and probably has—gotten him out of everything.
Before I can respond, Harper emerges from a side door, now back in her dress, her makeup refreshed. She stops short at the sight of Logan, color draining from her face. She walks over to us, panic evident in her eyes.
"Oh my god, Logan. You can't tell my dad you saw me here," she blurts out, panic edging her voice.
Logan's expression softens. "Your secret's safe with me, Red. Promise."
"Really?" Hope fills her voice.
Relief floods Harper's features, but suspicion quickly follows. "What are you even doing here?"
"Same as everyone else." He shrugs. "Looking for some fun. Come on, let's go get a drink."
We move to the bar, an unspoken agreement to keep each other's secrets.
Logan orders whiskey, Harper orders the same, while I stick with water.
The conversation flows with surprising ease—Logan telling stories about his restaurants, Harper discussing her bakery dreams—but underneath runs the current of shared secrets.
As they talk, I find myself watching their interaction.
They'd be cute together, both sharing a love for food, if not for the age gap and weirdness of him being her dad's best friend.
But isn't that similar to my situation with her dad?
Fuck, I wish I hadn't agreed to be the DD tonight because I really need a drink right now.
Harper laughs at something Logan says, the sound bright and relaxed despite the awkwardness of the situation. Logan's eyes linger on her for a moment too long before he catches himself and turns back to his drink. I wonder if Dom has any idea about the complicated web we're all weaving around him.
When we finally leave, Harper links her arm through mine, leaning close as we walk toward the exit.
"That was weird, right?" she whispers.
I think about Dom, about the room with the kneeling woman, about the web of connections binding us all together.
"Everything about tonight is weird," I answer truthfully. "But educational."
She raises an eyebrow. "Educational? Care to elaborate?"
I just shake my head, not ready to voice the awakening I've experienced. Some revelations need to be processed in private before being shared—even with your best friend.
The drive back to Dom's place is quiet. Harper nods off against the window, the excitement of the night catching up to her.
My thoughts remain tangled in everything I've experienced—the club, the couple in the amber-lit room, the unexpected encounter with Logan, and most of all, the revelation that's still humming through my body like an electric current.
When we get home, Harper perks up with that special energy only tipsy people possess at two in the morning. Her heels click-clack against the kitchen tile as she hops onto one of the island barstools, swinging her legs like she did when we were kids.
"I'm starving," she announces, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"Same." I kick off my shoes, relishing the cool floor beneath my feet as I head for the massive stainless-steel refrigerator. "Ice cream?" I ask, holding up a container of strawberry from the freezer.
Harper wrinkles her nose. "Is there any other flavor?"
I look back inside. "There's chocolate."
"Ooo, yes! Ice cream!" she cheers, clapping her hands together like she's just won a prize.
"Awesome." I pull out two bowls and spoons, working methodically in this kitchen that feels both foreign and familiar.
I scoop chocolate for her, sliding the bowl across the island's sleek surface, then serve myself some strawberry.
After returning the containers to the freezer, I settle on the stool beside her.
We devour our ice cream with frightening speed, spoons scraping against ceramic. The sugar rush is exactly what I need after tonight—something simple and sweet to ground me back in reality.
I take our empty bowls to the sink, rinsing them quickly. "Do you need help upstairs?" I ask, eyeing Harper who's now scrolling through her phone, her movements just a touch uncoordinated.
"I'm good," she assures me, sliding off the stool with exaggerated care.
"Okay, well, goodnight Harp."
"Night, Skye." She pauses at the kitchen entrance. "Love you."
"Love you too." I call back.
I head to my room—my temporary room—where I go straight to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looks different somehow. Same features, same freckles scattered across my nose, but my eyes hold something new—awareness, maybe. Or possibility.
I wash away the night's makeup, brush my teeth, and throw my hair up into a messy bun.
Then I grab a change of clothes—just a simple t-shirt—and sneak out through the patio door, circling around to reenter through the back entrance.
My bare feet navigate the stairs with practiced stealth, each step carefully placed to avoid any telltale creaks.
When I reach the third floor, I finally allow myself to breathe normally again.
I walk to his door and slowly push it open.
The room has a soft glow coming from what must be the bathroom light.
Did he leave it on for me? The thought makes my chest tighten in a way that's becoming familiar whenever I think of Dom's small considerations.
I creep in and shut the door behind me, then look over at the bed where his form lies still beneath the covers. He's asleep. For a moment, I just watch the rise and fall of his chest, remembering how it felt beneath my hands earlier.
I walk to the other side of the bed and slip out of my dress, letting it fall in a soft heap on the floor. I pull on the t-shirt I brought and carefully climb into his bed, trying not to disturb him.
I fail miserably.
As soon as I settle under the covers, Dom rolls over and reaches for me with unerring accuracy, pulling me against his warm body. "Missed you, baby," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.
He missed me.
God, I missed him too. What the fuck are we doing? There's no way this doesn't end badly, and now I'm curled up in his body in his bed to what—just sleep like some kind of couple or something?
His arm is heavy across my waist, his chest solid against my back. He smells like expensive cologne and warm skin. My body relaxes into his embrace even as my mind continues its frantic cataloging of all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
But as his breathing evens out again, his warmth enveloping me like a cocoon, I find my thoughts slowing, my eyes growing heavy. It doesn't take long before I start drifting off, wrapped in his strong arms, feeling inexplicably, impossibly safe.