Chapter 2
Chapter Two
PIPER
My pulse flickers in my wrist where his fingers rest.
He’s still holding my hand. Mr. Wicked.
That’s what I’ve christened him.
He led me into a private elevator behind a velvet curtain that blended in with the club’s dark walls. Once inside, he swiped a thumb over a silver panel and up we went.
My nerves twist the higher we climb, and the silence between us is…
It’s a mixture of tension and anticipation—mostly from me. The kind that makes me hyper-aware of every breath I take and every inch separating us.
It doesn’t help that he’s been watching me. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me, even when I think he has.
I’ve kept my gaze ahead, fixed on the cool metal of the elevator doors. I’m all sorts of nervous. I’m going to God knows where with a man I just met, and I have no idea what we’ll be doing.
I risk glancing at him, and sure enough, those piercing eyes are fixed on me.
My skin prickles everywhere he isn’t looking, aware of his interest and his proximity. A cocky smile dances on his lips. Like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I expect him to say something, but he continues staring like he’s sizing me up. Then the elevator stops. The doors slide open to a rooftop lounge, the ceiling open to the Manhattan sky.
The sight takes my breath away.
An impressive décor spills out before me, mingling in an array of soft moonlight and black leather.
A low wall of glass runs along the edge of the terrace, making the city feel close enough to touch. From the skyline rising around us to the cascade of buildings below, everything glows beneath the night.
In the lounge, the couches are arranged in intimate clusters around a bar at the far end, staffed by a single bartender. And then there’s a hot tub. Right across from the bar.
I’ve only ever seen a setup like this on TV or in magazines. It hardly looks real, and I experience a moment of temporary displacement. Like I stepped into someone else’s life for the night instead of my own.
“Come. Let’s get a better look,” Mr. Wicked says, tugging on my hand.
“Sure.”
He leads me onto a polished black stone floor. It’s so glossy I’m almost tempted to kneel down and touch it.
He signals to the bartender, who instantly grabs two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking wine. The label is French. He pours us each a drink and has them ready to hand to us by the time we reach the counter.
It’s only then that Mr. Wicked releases my hand. The absence of his touch leaves behind a strange awareness beneath my skin, but I ignore it.
We take our drinks, and he motions for me to follow him over to the balcony.
I do.
Cold night air brushes over my bare shoulders, carrying the distant hum of the traffic far below us. We stop at the rails and gaze at the sprawling city around us. It glitters endlessly, alive in a way that charges the air with electric energy.
We’re not as high as the skyscrapers but high enough that it feels like we’re in the heavens, gazing down.
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter.
“I thought you might think so.” There’s a smile in his voice.
I glance at him and take a sip of my wine. It’s fruity and delicious and completely unfamiliar. It has a decadence about it, the sort people with old money drink without thinking twice about the price.
I’ve never tasted wine like this before. That’s saying something considering Aunt Bess always thought of herself as a real connoisseur.
“You like that, too?” He lifts his chin toward my glass.
“Yes. It tastes amazing. What is it?”
“Romanée-Conti,” he says.
My insides still. That explains a lot. No wonder I’ve never had it. The wine costs well over ten grand a bottle. And as much as Aunt Bess loves her wine, she wouldn’t have parted with that kind of money for a single bottle.
I take another sip as he watches, his gaze falling to my lips.
Once again, I’m hyperaware of him—his presence, his lingering stare, and the invisible thing drawing me to him.
Since I’m here now, I may as well loosen up and do something normal. Like actually talk to him.
“Quite a good setup you have here,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too mechanical. I probably do, but at least I’m talking and my voice isn’t shaking.
His lips spread into a smooth grin. “It’s one of my lucky breaks. I never intended to own a club. Wasn’t even on my mind.”
“How did you come up with the idea?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was just sitting under a tree drinking coffee when it came to me?”
I smirk. “Really? That’s it?”
“That’s it. My youngest brother was there at the time, and we decided to go into business together.”
I’m surprised how easily he can speak to me. But I guess as a club owner, he must speak to a lot of people, especially women. “That sounds great.”
“It has been. Think of the phrase work hard, play harder.”
That phrase was definitely made for him, and something tells me this man only works so he can play.
“I see what you mean.”
“So… Butterfly…” He sets his glass down on the table beside him and deepens his stare. “Ready to play?”
“Before I say yes, can you give me an idea of what kind of dares you have in mind? Is it just for me?”
He shakes his head. “You can dare me, too. We take turns. As for the dares… well, I can’t really tell you what they’ll be like. It all depends on how far you’re willing to go.”
“That sounds kind of crazy.”
“Crazy is the soul of a dare.” His tone almost sounds poetic. “Not knowing what you’re going to do until you decide to do it is the thrill.”
“Okay...” One more sip of my drink before I place my glass next to his. “I think I’m ready.” The words come out way steadier than I feel. Must be the wine.
“Good, let’s start small with a couple of questions and requests.”
“Requests?”
He leans in close, almost too close, and his gaze holds mine in place. “Like take off your mask.”
My mask. I actually didn’t realize I was still wearing it.
Biting the inside of my lip, I drag off my mask. In the wake of its absence, I suddenly feel a little exposed, like I’ve given him access to something more personal than my face.
“I hope I’m not hideous,” I joke.
“Oh no. You most definitely are not hideous.” He borrows my earlier words.
I hold back a smile. “Thank you. What’s next?”
“Your turn. A question or a request, which can be anything besides trying to get my name. I won’t ask you yours, either.”
I think for a moment. What can I ask him?
Of course, I’d like to know his name, but that’s the whole thing about the mystery of the club.
And I get it. Sometimes it’s good to be anonymous.
Especially when you’re trying to forget who you were when everything fell apart.
People can become passing ships having fun under the guise of being whoever they want to be.
“Apart from the club, what do you like?” I hope that doesn’t sound lame.
“Poker.”
“Are you good at it?”
“The best.” He winks at me. “My turn.”
“Fire away.”
“Where are you from? You have a hint of a Southern accent on some words.”
It must be my nerves. I have what people call a watered-down accent caused by living in different places. The Southern part comes out under tension. Sometimes I sound no different from Aunt Bess. “I’m originally from Tennessee, but I grew up in San Francisco. Now I’m here.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Glad you think so.”
“I do. Your turn. One more question, then we jump to dares and mix it up.”
“What does mix it up mean?”
“Is that your question?”
“Is this the last chance for me to ask you a question?” I throw back, trying to preempt his next steps.
A soft chuckle falls from his lips. “Depends on how you play the game.”
“Okay… then that’s my question. What does mix it up mean?”
“A mixture of dares and everything else in between.”
I notice he never really gives a straight answer. So far, most of his explanations have seemed purposely vague, laced with something that keeps me curious.
“Could you give me a little more context?”
“No. It spoils the fun.” He gives me a clipped smile. “My turn. First dare.”
“Okay. Fire away.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I dare you to get in the hot tub with me.”
My mouth goes dry and my stomach does that squeezing thing again. I look across at the hot tub, then back at him with wide eyes. “You’re serious?”
“Of course.”
“But… I don’t have any swimming clothes.” That’s actually the least of my worries. How am I supposed to get in a hot tub with him?
“Not a problem.” He signals to the bartender again, who looks up from cleaning the countertop. “Can you grab her a small bikini?”
The bartender nods and saunters away. A moment later, he returns with a black bikini set with the store tag still attached to it.
The bartender hands it to me and points to a door opposite the hot tub. “You can change in there.”
“Thanks.” My voice is squeaky with nerves.
Mr. Wicked nods toward the door. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
Okay… I can do this. It’s just a dare. Just a fun dare. And if I overthink this for another thirty seconds, I’ll lose my nerve completely.
I make my way to the door and go through it, walking into a full-on boudoir-style dressing room. Soft amber lighting glows beneath the mirrors, reflecting off black marble counters and gold fixtures polished to perfection. It matches the elaborate club design.
I walk over to the counter and rest the bikini on it. Then I lean against the wall and stare at it.
It’s just a fun dare.
I chuckle nervously. Alexis would approve and have a field day with this.
And… getting in a hot tub with a man you just met who just told you he wants you is what you call seizing the moment.
On that thought, I take off my clothes and pull on the bikini. It fits perfectly, showing off all my finest assets, and looks really expensive, too, with its soft velvety fabric.
It’s clear Mr. Wicked is loaded. Fine wine, fine clothes, fine man.