1. BENJI
Sometimes a fantasy was all it took.
I worked hard, every single day, adult mode on.
A paralegal suffering from eye strain and an obedient smile.
Life had never been on my side.
Life kept me living with loud roommates.
Life forced me into burning out.
But it also presented me with a gift, as if to say I’m sorry, but that place you always search online is having an open night where you don’t have to be a member or pay an entry fee.
Playhouse.
Or the Playhouse, or Playhouse Club, whatever they were going by. I knew it had changed, and the locations had been switched around several times already. It wasn’t like I could afford it, so I’d only ever seen pictures from the official Playhouse posts. Guests never posted.
And now I knew why.
They took my phone at the coat check, placing it inside a lockbox with the understanding I could only reclaim it when I was leaving. But minutes before handing my phone over, I received a gut punch of a text.
My friend Theo was supposed to be here too, but he’d flaked, leaving me to enter alone.
Before the velvet curtain entryway, there were rules in pink neon along the wall. I’d seen them before on their website. All about consent and acknowledging they were a safe space.
I stood at the bar alone while men walked by—some in suits and others half dressed, being walked around on leashes or dancing in onesies, throwing glitter from shakers in glowing wands.
It was then I realized I could’ve brought my onesie, and a teddy. Instead, I was stuck in a pair of black jeans with ripped knees and a cream knit sweater over a navy shirt buttoned up to the collar. The urge to tear it off and be in my fun polka dot briefs was strong.
For years, I’d eyed the Playhouse. They moved every so often, bigger buildings, more expensive membership fees. And a few times a year, they had these open nights, like a recruitment drive where Doms and subs could meet up for free—except it wasn’t free.
“Twenty-five dollars,” the bartender said, pushing the strawberry daiquiri across to me. It came with a funky swirly straw and some jelly candies on the top.
I stared at him, my brain having a meltdown. My eye twitched. I expected fifteen dollars, at the most. I pushed a hand into my tight jeans pocket, grabbing my wallet. I’d brought fifty bucks with me, a generous amount, I thought.
“Don’t worry, I got this,” a man said, catching my attention from the right.
Holy fuck. Men buying me drinks never happened. And he was hot. “I—uh—thank you,” I said, pushing my wallet back down.
He held out a hand. “Maxwell Grant, but I go by Max,” he said. He was dressed in a suit, no tie, but he looked expensive, like one of the partners at Thompson he looked older now with that expression. “It’s okay to be lost,” he said. “It gives you an excuse to discover, and this place is perfect for that.”
With the straw in my mouth, mid-suck, I couldn’t help but speak. “Perfect,” I let out, almost inhaling the slushie.
He chuckled, the corner of his lips twitching with a smile. “You wanna find somewhere to sit before it gets busier?”
I stared with pinched brows and my lips nearly numb from the cold, deciding how to move. “I—”
“Just until you’re comfortable to get out there and mingle,” he said. “Slow and steady.”
“Oh. Okay, sure, and thank you for buying this,” I said, panicked at the idea I’d forgot to thank him.
Had I? My brain raced. Either I’d said it twice, or just now, and either way, heat rushed to my cheeks.
I sucked on the straw, pulling up more of the icy drink into my mouth, and in the process being nudged by someone wanting to get to the bar.
Max took me to a private booth behind a red rope. It was a quiet alcove of private seating, with a comfy, plush purple interior and imitation candles in the center of the table, like they were setting the mood for a date. I slurped the daiquiri until I got brain freeze.
Stomping my feet and thumping my fists on the table, I was going through it.
Max chuckled. “That’s a golden rule. Don’t suck too hard too fast,” he said.
“Urgh.” I couldn’t laugh, my brain was screaming. It hurt.
“Can I touch you?” he asked in a whisper. I nodded as he placed a hand on my shoulder, turning me to face him properly. “Place your tongue on the roof of your mouth and push, keep it there,” he said, speaking slowly and nodding. “It’s helps, somehow, maybe forces circulation again.”
And it did. “Thanks. That’s—embarrassing.”
His fingertips brushed down my sleeve until he took his glass from the table and lifted it to his lips.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Vodka soda,” he said. “No chance of me getting brain freeze from this.”
I rolled my eyes. “So, what do you do?” It was the question I knew everyone asked, especially someone like him, someone you could smell the money on. It was the lingering cologne, the confidence, and the way his hands moved.
“Nothing important,” he said, winking at me.
Oh god. My gut was weak. “You’re not one of my bosses, are you?” I asked, shaking my head and searching for an escape route. “Like, I totally love my job, and as much as I complain about the hours sometimes, I’m not going to be accused of—”
He smirked, as if he wanted me to finish what I was saying, and yet I didn’t want to put a name to this encounter.
He’d bought me a drink, so was it flirting?
Had I found myself on a surprise date with a handsome man?
Was Theo behind this? A present he’d thrown a hundred bucks at as a sorry.
Oh god, it was all an act, and I’d fallen, hook, line, and sinker.
“Are you a—”
“Go on,” he said.
“A sex worker?”
He laughed so hard he slapped the table. “Of all the things, I’ve never been asked that,” he said, and his cheeks turned pink. “That’s—caught me off guard. Damn. I don’t know what to say now.”
If he really was one of my bosses, then I was putting myself in trouble. “You’re not a lawyer, are you?”
“Unfortunately, no, but I do pay them a lot of money for what I do,” he said. “How about I take a guess at what you do?”
I gave the straw in my daiquiri a small suck, scared of another brain freeze fiasco. “Sure. I think it’ll be easy.”
“Well, you’re in your early twenties, deer in headlights when I first saw you, look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months, and if I had to guess, I’d say you were being taken advantage of, for your experience, maybe.
An intern. You dress smart—the sweater is giving me casual, though.
You know, the dress policy here is relaxed, but you’re not a regular either.
Anyway, I’m thinking law.” His eyes scanned me.
They were warm and brown, sending tingles over me. “A paralegal.”
My eyes widened. “How’d you—”
He shrugged. “You asked me if I was a lawyer, it was a hint.” He opened his gorgeous mouth to take another drink. I stared at his lips and watched his tongue contact the rim, a slow-motion wave to it like he was showing off. “You wanna take another guess at what I do?”
“Pick guys up at the club, wear nice suits, show off a little money, and then go home, take it all off and be someone else,” I let out. It wasn’t like anyone with any real amount of wealth would be caught here, let alone strike up a conversation with me. It was transactional; I knew that much.
“That’s not a job,” he said, still smiling. “Take another guess. It’s not a typical job.”
“Then I’ll guess you’re self-employed.”
He shrugged and nodded. “Pretty much, but I’m not a hustler, and I do not become someone else when I take all of this off.”
I sucked slowly on the straw. I didn’t want to insult him, but I had every right to be cautious.
A friendly older guy never approached without wanting something in exchange, and I wanted to cut to the chase.
I wanted to fuck him—well, for him to fuck me—but it seemed the only thing I fucked was myself, over.
“You’re not a lawyer,” I said. “So, I guess something with money, like a banker, or . . .” I tried gauging his reaction to the suggestion, but he kept the same expression. “Consulting? Some type of CEO or—”
“I guess you’re on the right track,” he said. “Do you wanna know, or do you wanna keep guessing?”
“You can tell me,” I said.
“First, you’ve gotta make sure to tell me you’re not gonna treat me any differently,” he said, raising his brow. “Promise?”
I held out a pinky finger. “Promise,” I said, and as he hooked his pinky around mine, I felt a throb in my jeans and an extra tight clench to my ass. “Can’t break these.” Not now my ass had given its clench of approval.
“So I’ve heard,” he whispered. “Well, at twenty-five, so ten years ago, I sold a tech startup, which was worth a lot. I won’t say how much, but I got a piece of it. And now I invest in other businesses, not controlling shares, but enough to see new innovations succeed or fail.”
Standing suddenly, my knee knocked the table.
I didn’t know what I was hearing, but he was either actually really wealthy or he was fucking around with me.
Growing up, I’d fought for everything. I was a middle child in a poor family, so I slipped through as many cracks as would appear in front of me, and every night I dreamed of what I’d do with just one million dollars.
Real or fake, I couldn’t look at Max right now.