Chapter 2 Noelle
NOELLE
Twenty minutes later and I’m back in the lounge, this time fully covered in my street clothes, no Christmas tree nipple tassels in sight. I removed most of my smoky eye make-up but kept the red lips—they seem appropriate for the holiday season.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Jared, one of the bartenders says, sliding a glass of red wine across the bar counter to me. I give him a grateful smile.
“Remember the two drink minimum if you want to go play behind the steel door tonight,” he says with mock sternness.
I hold up the glass. “This is my first and only, promise.”
I haven’t decided if I’m going back tonight, but it doesn’t matter either way. I’m not much of a drinker, and one glass of wine is pretty much my limit, no matter what extracurriculars I may get up to.
The owners of this fine establishment pay their entertainment staff very well, but that’s not why many of the girls choose to work here. There’s a perk that comes along with our employment, a perk that some people would willingly pay tens of thousands of dollars for.
A limited membership to Club Wyld.
That membership allows me to go into the back rooms and take part in scenes—as a submissive.
Management is very clear that what happens behind the steel door has no impact on our employment.
We’re being paid to entertain up front, not to submit to the rich and powerful Doms in the back.
Everything is above board in a place as classy as this.
But it’s pretty clear they hope we will participate.
The club needs plenty of young, unattached submissives in order to keep the Doms happy.
Sure, there are some submissives who are financially secure enough to purchase their own membership, but the number is small.
Apparently rich and powerful men are more likely to spend obscene amounts of money to buy a membership in a sex club. Go figure.
And that’s where we come in. After our shifts or on nights off, we’re allowed to go back and participate in any of the depraved delights taking place.
We don’t have to. No one has ever pressured me or Brittney to do anything—consent is paramount at Club Wyld.
But most of the girls choose to play. Hell, most of the girls only applied here so that they could go back and play.
So it’s an arrangement that works out for everyone. The club gets lots of subs and the girls get their every fantasy met by some of the most powerful men on the east coast. Win-win.
Jared leans his forearms on the bar, and I don’t miss the way his gaze looks me over.
I’m dressed in my usual non-work outfit—a simple little black dress that hits just above the knee and a pair of ballet flats.
It doesn’t really matter what I wear up here.
If I decide to go into the back, I’ll just be taking it off anyhow.
“You on for the rest of the night?” I ask.
Jared nods, eyes dancing with heat. “Yup. But my shift got a lot less interesting now that you’re not out here dancing.”
I roll my eyes at him. Jared is a terrible flirt.
“Bourbon,” a gruff voice sounds from next to me, and I practically fall over twisting in my barstool to see Roman standing there, glaring at Jared.
“Sure thing, Mr. Clarke,” Jared says easily, apparently missing the daggers shooting from the bigger man’s eyes.
“No,” Roman snaps. “I want Kendra to get it.” He jerks his head to the other side of the bar, where several people are waiting. “You have a line. Go take care of it.”
If Jared is put off by Roman’s rudeness, he doesn’t say a word. Merely gives me a nod and moves down the bar, stopping to murmur something in Kendra’s ear when he passes her.
I sit still, clutching the stem of my wine glass, unable to look up at the man towering over me. There’s a weird energy coming off him, like he’s angry, maybe. He certainly sounded angry when he just barked at the bartender, and that’s saying something—it’s not like he’s usually sunshine and roses.
But I can also feel the heat of his gaze on me, and that has my heart pounding hard all over again.
“Here you are, Mr. Clarke,” Kendra says, placing a fresh bourbon in front of him. “I hope the Old Carter is to your liking?”
“That’s one of my favorites, thank you,” he says, still gruff but slightly less pissed-off sounding.
“You all set, Noelle?” Kendra asks, and I finally force myself to lift my eyes to meet hers.
I hold up my still full glass of wine. “All good.”
She winks at me. “You were great out there tonight. Totally hot.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, acutely aware of the man next to me.
“You heading to the back tonight?”
Roman takes a step closer, making my belly flip. God, he smells good—hints of smoky bourbon mixed with pine. All man.
“Not sure yet.”
Kendra taps the counter. “Well, have fun if you do, and be safe.” She nods at Roman. “Let me know if you need anything else, Mr. Clarke.”
Then she’s heading off down the bar to help someone else, leaving the two of us alone, silence settling thick between us.
“So,” I say, my voice overly bright to my own ears. “You, um, have any plans for the holidays?”
I briefly close my eyes. Am I seriously trying to make small talk with Roman Clarke?
But I can’t help it—I’ve never been great with silence, and the tension between us feels tightly stretched.
If I don’t break it, I’m pretty sure I’ll do something stupid.
Like scream. Or maybe try to climb him like a tree.
“No plans,” he says in that low voice. There’s a pause and I’m sure the awkward silence is about to make a reappearance, so he shocks me when he continues. “No family in this part of the country.” He clears his throat. “What about you?”
“Oh, I—” I’m so surprised that he actually asked me a question that it takes me a second to remember what we were even talking about.
“I don’t have plans, either. Well, not much.
I usually spend Christmas morning at a women’s shelter serving breakfast, but, uh, no plans for Christmas Eve or anything.
I’ll probably be at the club’s holiday party next week, though.
That’s my most exciting plan, I guess.” I know that I’m rambling so I force myself to snap my mouth closed. The man makes me so off-kilter.
It’s been like this since the very first time I saw him at Club Wyld.
I had been working here for a month or so when he came in one Friday night.
I hadn’t been dancing that shift—my position is classified as “entertainment,” which means they sometimes have me doing a variety of things.
That night my job was to serve champagne.
Dressed in nothing but a bra and a short apron over lace panties.
He’d been at a table with a few other Doms, men I’d gotten to know a bit since my first day.
All nice guys, respectful of the staff. Flirty, yes, but never lewd.
They were rich—hell, everyone who purchases a membership at Wyld is rich—and well-dressed, handsome and polished the way only wealthy men can pull off.
And then there was Roman. His suit had been every bit as expensive as the others, but that’s where the similarities stopped.
Roman Clarke didn’t have a suave, polished bone in his body.
Everything about him screamed rugged, from his just-a-shade-too-long dark hair, to the scruff on his jaw, the massive bulk of his chest and shoulders, and his wild blue eyes.
Eyes that had been locked on me from the moment I arrived at their table. Eyes that have been locked on me every single time I’ve seen him since.
“A woman’s shelter?” he asks, voice a shade lower. Concerned maybe. Or disapproving?
I shrug. “I don’t have any family. Helping someone else feels like a nice way to spend the holiday.” I don’t tell him how lonely my holidays have been since my dad died. I’m already feeling vulnerable as hell under the penetrating gaze of the giant man next to me.
A moment later, I get the shock of my life.
Roman reaches out and places one finger below my chin, tilting it up until I’m looking at him.
He’s barely touching me but I can feel it in every fiber of my body.
It’s like there’s an electric current spreading out from that inch of skin where his finger meets my chin.
I suck in a breath when I meet his eyes. They’re somehow even more wild looking than usual, but filled with a warmth I’ve never seen in them before.
“You’re a very kind person, Noelle.”
My stomach swoops, warmth radiating through me. He’s never complimented me before—hell, he’s said more to me tonight than he ever has—and I find I like his praise. Very much.
I suppose that’s why I do a very stupid thing.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly breathy. If I’d hoped to hide how affected I am by him, I’m doing an awful job. “Maybe we could sit and eat together? I think the chef did a nice salmon tonight—”
“No.”
Just like that, everything turns cold. He snatches his hand away from my chin, taking a step back. His eyes have gone stony, expression blank. A chill runs over my skin and I feel like crying. I thought we were making progress.
Wrong again, Noelle, I think to myself, angry and dejected. He might like to watch you dance but he clearly doesn’t care for you in that way. Get it through your head.
“Sorry,” I mumble, gripping the stem of my wine glass. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
I start to slide off the stool but he stops me with a hand at my back. And holy hell, if I thought it felt good when he touched my chin it has nothing on the way his big warm hand feels pressed to the base of my spine.
“Are you staying to play tonight?” he asks in a low voice, and I can’t read his tone. He clears his throat. “Beyond the steel door, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, completely overwhelmed by his touch, by the way he’s looking at me so intensely, like he’s trying to drill down to my innermost thoughts. “Are you going back there?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. “I thought I might spend some time in one of the viewing booths,” he finally says, his voice like gravel. There’s a pause, his fingers flexing on my back. “If there’s anyone performing who I’d like to see, that is.”
Well. Okay then. I’m pretty sure Roman just told me that he’d be interested in watching one of my private scenes.
That has to be what he’s implying, right?
I wish, not for the first time, that I’d managed to make more girl friends in spite of my dad’s travel during my teen years.
Maybe then I’d be better at knowing when a guy was interested.
“Perhaps I’ll see you back there, then,” I murmur, mouth dry as my heart pounds.
Again, he just watches me and I can see the struggle on his face, in his eyes. He wants something he doesn’t think he should have, I realize.
Is that something me?
Finally, he removes his hand, taking a step back. Before I can feel the familiar swell of rejection, his lips tilt up in the corner. It’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a smile on his face, and I’m so shocked that it takes me a moment to process his next words.
“I hope so, angel.”