Uncharted Desires (Skin on Skin #1)

Chapter One

Blake

I’M NOT SURE what pisses me off more—the fact that I'm standing in a massive line on a Friday night or the fact that the line leads to a sex club. A sex club I have never intended to go to in the first place.

I keep my gaze glued to the ground, avoiding eye contact with anyone around. One look at me and they’d know this was not my first choice for the evening.

It's been fifteen minutes, and there are still two couples in front of me. I chance a look behind. Everyone here is either coupled up or grouped up in some weird configuration. I'm the only single person around. Fuck.

A sound of throat clearing gets my head snapping forward. The two couples are now heading inside and I'm five feet away from the bouncer. Adjusting my stance to appear more confident, I walk up to him, and before he can ask me a single question, I say, “I'm here to see Sawyer.”

He gives me a sharp nod. “Name?”

“Blake,” I say, hoping that will be sufficient. I'm not exactly dying to share all my personal information in a place like this.

He runs his gaze across a list he’s holding—one page, then the next, then the next.

My cheeks flush with heat. Please tell me Sawyer has put me on that fucking list. It costs a grand even to step foot in this place. And I swear to God if that motherfucker—

“There you go.” The bouncer makes a little tick with his pen before he grabs the black tape separating us from the entrance and pulls it back, letting me through.

I drop my gaze once I notice he sizes me up, and rush to the door before he can see me for what I am and change his mind.

I press on the handle and pull, but the door doesn’t budge. I brace myself and try again, with more success this time. Well, now I know why there are no single people here—it takes two to even open the door.

The sounds hit me the moment I enter. Soft instrumental music—Jazz, maybe?— spills from all directions mingled with laughs and chatter, and… Well, that's a moan, if I ever heard one.

I make my way through a hallway that never ends and enter a large club area.

There are additional hallways to my left and right, and across the room stretches the longest bar I have ever seen.

That’s my destination. I assume its location isn't arbitrary at all, because to get there, you have to walk past and between a dozen or so large, black leather sofas without backrests or armrests.

Just giant square islands positioned between narrow alleyways and equally square tables.

And on those sofas? A fucking madhouse.

People are getting it on in every corner; sucking face, touching the way you wouldn't touch anyone in any other public space, whispering God knows what into each other's ears.

I'm halfway through the room when one guy right in front of me picks up the lady he’s with. They make out like there's no tomorrow. She wraps her legs around his waist, and he carries her into one of the hallways. I can only imagine what’s out there—wilderness.

I manage to get to the bar after what feels like forever, and the first thing I notice, or rather don't notice, is Sawyer, who’s not here.

I pull out my phone and check the time. Nine-thirty.

I was supposed to get here at nine, but it's not my fault the line was never-ending. Plus, he said he was working all night.

If this is some kind of prank, I swear I will kill him. God knows he’s had it coming for a long time.

“Can I get you something to drink?” a bartender who isn't Sawyer asks as soon as I take a seat on one of the stools next to a throuple getting handsy in all possible configurations.

“I'm just waiting for someone, thanks.”

The guy gives me a polite smile and moves on to other customers.

Damn, I should have ordered something just so I could tip him.

He works with Sawyer, after all—his life is already as shitty as it can get.

I tap my fingers on the bar top before pivoting on the stool and propping on my elbows.

I'll give him five minutes, and then I'm out of here.

We're supposed to be working. Together. Not by my choice, mind you.

And I have no fucking idea how I could focus in here, anyway.

I try to get my mind off people's hands and mouths and other body parts.

I don't feel entirely comfortable watching.

Instead, I focus on the human aspect of things.

Everyone is well groomed—not quite what I expected.

Glamorous, expensive looking, sure of themselves.

I guess that makes sense, given the entry fee.

I look down at my jeans and t-shirt and immediately feel even more out of place. Why that bouncer let me in is beyond me.

A grunt from my left brings my attention to a man with his fly open and a woman's hand inside his pants, working him over. And she looks so into it. Lucky guy.

On the square sofa next to them, a couple is kissing passionately, the guy's hand cupping the side of his date’s head as if pushing it out of the way so he can ogle the couple next to them.

It's ridiculous and thrilling at the same time. Definitely not my scene, but I guess I can see the appeal.

“It's dangerous to people-watch in a place like this.” I jump in my seat like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Once my heart regains its regular heartbeat, my jaw sets at the smugness in the deep voice uttering the smartass words.

It's alright, man. You can do this.

I pivot back around. Across the bar from me stands Sawyer.

“And here I thought it was designed just for that.”

His gaze drops to my t-shirt, and I collapse inside. Why didn’t I think to dress up?

“For some people, yes,” he says as he puts his forearms on the bar.

I grit my teeth. How the fuck does he manage to grind my gears two sentences into the conversation?

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He looks to the side and shrugs nonchalantly. “For people who know what they're doing and are actually interested in following through.”

I swear I’d punch him if I didn't fear that the bouncer might come in here and physically remove me. He's a big guy.

“It's a good thing I'm not here for that then, isn't it?” I unlock my phone and pull up a spreadsheet.

“All work, no play, huh? Wouldn't expect anything else from you.”

Jesus, how can a person be such an asshole? It's not like I asked to be stuck doing this assignment with him. He did. Just to fuck with me, I suppose. The second the professor called out my name, he volunteered and then turned to look at me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Group assignments are a joke on the best day. Add Sawyer to the mix, and it's a shit show.

Two more semesters. One year, and I'll never have to see him again.

“Anyway,” I say as I swipe to the next slide. “I was thinking—”

He snatches my phone and looks at the screen for a whooping two seconds before saying, “I'll do points one, four, and five. You take two, three, and six. Then we compile.” And then the fucker tosses my phone on the bar top in front of me.

That was exactly what I was thinking, given our respective majors, but who the fuck does he think he is? “So what, you're the boss of me now? Don't you think I have something to say?”

He leans in, his face hovering inches from mine. I swear he's just asking for that punch. “Would you rather we meet up for two hours after classes every day and do everything together like a couple of BFFs? Cause I promise you, I will not be the one suffering in this scenario.”

I cringe, hating that he makes sense. “I guess if you put it like that….”

He gives me one of his condescending smiles before straightening up. “It’s settled, then,” he says matter-of-factly and turns to leave. To fucking leave.

“Are you kidding me? That's it?”

He stops mid-step and looks at me over his shoulder. “What were you expecting, a candlelight dinner?”

“You dragged me into this fucking place on a Friday night just to say something you could have said over the phone? Or better yet, in a text, so I didn't have to hear your voice?”

He tilts his head to the side. “Poor Blake, forced to leave his house for once. What a travesty.” And with that, he's gone to the other side of the bar, where he stops to take an order.

I turn around to face the room and count back from ten.

Sawyer fucking Matthews. I swear he wasn't always like this.

He was actually a normal dude freshman year.

Popular. Easygoing. A damn quarterback. And then the summer came, and when other people were busy growing up, he was apparently busy doing the exact opposite.

By the time fall came around and classes started, his sportswear was replaced by leather and his easygoing nature was replaced by the devil-may-care attitude he wears proudly on his sleeve.

He quit the team. His grades went to shit, and so did his whole personality.

“So,” his voice comes from behind me, startling me once more, and I brace myself for another assholey line. “You want a tour?”

I snap my head around to make sure it’s actually him talking and blink twice. “Seriously?”

He shrugs in response.

Now, I don't want to spend any more time with him than necessary, but I'm curious about what’s on the other side of all these hallways. And given the fact that I’m alone and dressed like a fucking hobo, I suspect the bouncer may actually come back and tell me he was suffering a stroke when he let me in.

I don't need Sawyer to know that, though. His ego is big enough as it is. “Maybe for five minutes.”

“Hey, Jesse!” he calls out to the guy on the other side of the bar. “I'm gonna take a break.” He tosses him a towel he's been using to wipe the bar, unsurprisingly acting like he owns this damn joint.

I scoff inwardly and scramble off the stool as Sawyer makes his way through the door behind the bar and exits through another door in the open area.

I almost laugh when I see him.