Chapter 2 #2
I found myself…riveted. I stepped off to the side, where there was a viewing area with a window overlooking the activity inside the room. As I watched all the debauchery, my cheeks burned, a flush of curiosity and arousal mixing with the subtle buzz of the champagne I’d consumed.
The people in this room were arranged in varying degrees of intimacy, openly and shamelessly fucking each other.
Directly in my line of sight, a couple moved together on a low platform bed, their bodies slick with sweat.
The woman was on her hands and knees, her back arched in a perfect curve as the man behind her gripped her hips and drove into her with a relentless rhythm, while another man knelt in front of her.
His hands tangled in her hair as he fucked her mouth, making her gag on his cock with every deep thrust. I watched the way her fingers clawed at the silk sheets, gathering fistfuls of the fabric as if she needed something to anchor herself while these two men claimed her body in the most decadent way.
To their left on a separate bed was another trio.
A man lay on his back while a woman rode him, her arms bound at her side with leather restraints, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Behind her, another man pressed against her back, his hands cupping her breasts while his mouth skimmed along her neck.
I couldn’t tell exactly what he was doing, but the way she writhed between them, caught in a prison of pleasure, made my stomach clench with something that felt dangerously close to envy.
Some of the participants seemed hyper-aware of their audience, performing almost, making eye contact with watchers while they put on a show.
Others were lost in their own world, so consumed by sensation that the rest of the room might as well not have existed.
For them, pleasure had become the only reality.
Enthralled, I watched. I couldn’t make myself stop.
My skin felt too tight, too hot. The silk lining of my dress brushed against my nipples with every breath, and I realized that they’d hardened into stiff, sensitive peaks.
Lower, between my thighs, I could feel myself growing slick.
My pussy throbbed with a hollow ache, clenching around nothing, desperate for something I’d only ever given myself in the privacy of my bedroom with the lights off and the covers pulled up.
This was what I’d been missing, I realized.
Not the sex itself—though it had been so long since anyone had touched me, and even more embarrassing was that I’d never had a man who’d taken the time to give me an orgasm—but the shamelessness of it all.
The permission to want. To crave. To need without apology.
I shifted, rubbing my thighs together as my gaze drifted to another couple, where the man had a woman pinned beneath him on the mattress, one large hand wrapped loosely around her throat while the other manacled both her wrists above her head.
She was completely at his mercy, unable to move, barely able to breathe, and from the euphoric expression on her face, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
He fucked her in short, grinding, controlled thrusts. Each roll of his hips seemed designed to hit exactly the right spot, and the woman responded with helpless little moans that made my inner walls clench in response.
“Please,” I heard her whimper, the word barely audible above the ambient noise of the room. “Please, please, please—”
His response was to tighten his grip on her throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her who was in control. Her eyes rolled back and her body arched beneath him, straining against his hold, and I watched as a flush spread down her chest as she came apart.
I realized I was holding my breath. My hand had drifted to my own throat without my conscious permission, fingers resting against my pulse point as if to feel the phantom pressure of his grip.
What would it feel like, I wondered, to surrender like that? To give someone else complete control and trust them not to break you? To be so consumed by pleasure that you forgot to be self-conscious, forgot to be good, forgot everything except the feeling of being thoroughly fucked into oblivion?
The man on the bed released the woman’s wrists, stroking her hair back from her damp forehead with surprising tenderness. The contrast—that gentle touch after such a dominant possession—made something twist in my chest.
I wanted that. I wanted someone to hold me down and make me forget my own name. I wanted to be the woman gasping and pleading and coming undone while someone else took what they wanted from my body and gave me pleasure in return.
I’d never let myself desire that before. Good girls didn’t have fantasies about being dominated. Good girls didn’t get wet watching strangers fuck in a sex club. Good girls didn’t—
Fuck being a good girl.
The thought was so sudden, so fierce, I almost laughed. Here I was, in a sex club, watching live, explicit scenarios and my arousal soaking through my underwear, and I was still worried about what good girls did and didn’t do.
Maybe that was the real rebellion. Not coming here, not watching from the sidelines, but finally admitting to myself what I truly craved.
I was wet and aching, my core pulsing with a need that bordered on desperation.
I wanted a cock inside of me so badly. I wanted to be like that woman on the bed getting ruthlessly fucked and loving every second of it—
“Enjoying the show?”
The low, deep, husky voice interrupted my thoughts, sending a jolt through my body that made me jump. My elbow connected with something solid and muscular—a man’s body.
“I’m so sorry—” I started, turning to face whoever I’d just assaulted, only to have my words die in my throat as I looked up into the face of one of the most ruggedly handsome men I’d ever seen.
He stood slightly to the side and behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.
His cologne teased my senses, something woodsy and masculine.
He was tall, well over six feet, with the kind of broad-shouldered frame that made me feel small in a way that should have been threatening, but instead felt surprisingly safe.
His hair was dark brown, worn longer than was fashionable and pushed back from his face in a way that suggested he’d run his fingers through it more than once tonight.
A few strands had fallen forward, softening features that might have otherwise been too sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a sensual mouth that looked like it had been designed specifically for sin.
But it was his eyes that held me hostage.
Dark brown and filled with an intensity that made me forget how to breathe, they swept over me in a slow, thorough assessment, taking in my flushed face, my parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of my chest. He missed nothing, watching me like he already knew what I’d been thinking. What I wanted.
He looked at me the way the man on the bed had looked at the woman he was fucking. Like I was prey. And the thing was…I didn’t mind being the recipient of his unapologetic interest.
“I—” My voice came out as a croak, and I cleared my throat and tried again. “I didn’t realize anyone was there.”
He pushed his hands into the front pockets of his slacks as one corner of his mouth curved upward. Not quite a smile but something infinitely more knowing. “You were distracted.”
It wasn’t a question. He’d been watching me watch them. The realization made my cheeks heat.
“First time at the club?” he asked, moving around the alcove to face me more fully and leaned one shoulder against the wall next to the glass panel I’d been looking through.
I swallowed hard. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a look.” His eyes traveled over me once again, lingering on the neckline of my dress before dropping to the slit that exposed a flash of thigh. After a moment, his gaze met mine again. “Like you can’t decide if you want to give in to temptation, or run from it.”
“Maybe I haven’t decided yet,” I heard myself say.
His almost-smile deepened, revealing a dimple in his left cheek that had no business being that attractive on a man. “Fair enough.” He tilted his head slightly, studying me. “What did you decide about the show?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You never answered my question.” He pushed off the wall and stepped toward me, close enough now that I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact and could see the flecks of amber in those dark eyes, like embers buried in ash. “Are you enjoying the show?”
I should have given him a safe answer. A polite answer. The kind of modest response a good girl would give to avoid being ruined by a dominant man like him.
“Yes,” I said instead, my voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”
Something flickered across his expression. Approval maybe. Or a challenge. Possibly both.
“What part? The exhibitionism? The voyeurism?” His voice dropped lower, intimate enough that it felt like a physical caress. “You were watching that last couple particularly closely.”
My breath stuttered. He’d seen me watching the man dominate that woman. Had witnessed how captivated and enthralled I’d been. Probably even knew how aroused that scenario had made me.
“The way he held her down,” he continued, his tone conversational even as his words made my pulse race. “His hand on her throat. Her wrists pinned above her head.” Those dark eyes bore into mine. “That’s what caught your attention, wasn’t it?”
I couldn’t speak. Could barely think. All I could do was stare up at this man—this stranger—who had somehow read my deepest, most secret desires in the span of five minutes.
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting that.” His voice was soft now, but his eyes remained intent. “To be held down. Controlled. To give yourself over to someone else and trust them to give you what you need.”
“I don’t—” I started, but he shook his head slightly, cutting off my denial.
“Don’t lie. Not here.” He reached out, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to touch my face.
Instead, his fingers caught a strand of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder.
He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger like he was testing the texture of fine silk.
“This place only works if you’re honest. With others, and with yourself. ”
His eyes met mine again, and I swallowed hard. “And if I’m not sure what I want?” I asked honestly.
“Then you explore until you figure it out.” He released my hair, though his fingers brushed along my bare arm before falling away, causing me to shiver. “That’s what this place is for. Figuring out what you desire, no matter how unconventional, without worrying about any judgment from anyone else.”
Behind me, someone cried out in pleasure, and another long, drawn-out moan that seemed to echo through the room. I didn’t turn to look. I couldn’t have torn my gaze from this man if my life depended on it.
“I’m Tate,” he said.
The name suited him. Short, strong, no-nonsense. Just like the man standing in front of me, radiating confidence and heat and something darker that made my stomach flip.
“Stella,” I managed.
“Stella,” he murmured, as if testing out the sound of my name. “Are you here alone, kitten?”
Kitten. Something soft and innocent and need of protection. Something small that could be scooped up and held, petted and gentled and cared for. The word should have been patronizing. Should have made the feminist part of my brain bristle with indignation.
Instead, it made me want to curl up in his lap and purr.
What is wrong with you? that internal voice inside me whispered. You don’t even know this man. You’re not the kind of woman who melts just because some stranger calls you kitten.
But that was exactly it, wasn’t it? I didn’t know what kind of woman I was.
Not really. I’d spent twenty-six years being the woman everyone else wanted me to be.
The perfect daughter, the appropriate girlfriend, the non-threatening career woman with her cute little hobby.
Maybe this version of me, the one who got wet from watching strangers fuck and trembled when a gorgeous man called her kitten, was closer to the truth than the version I’d been performing my whole life.
“I came with a friend,” I said, and I was absurdly proud that my voice only wavered slightly. “She’s…occupied with someone else.”
“And left you to fend for yourself.” It wasn’t quite a criticism, but there was something assessing in his tone. “Tell me, kitten. Do you need rescuing?”
The question hung in the air between us. He was giving me an out, I realized. A chance to retreat, to claim I was overwhelmed, to let him escort me back to the safety of the main lounge and never see him again.
A week ago, I would have taken the graceful exit. A day ago, even. I would have smiled politely and thanked him and fled back to my safe, good-girl life where no one looked at me like I was something worth consuming.
But I didn’t want to go back to my ordinary life.
That was the whole point of being here. And looking up at Tate—at his smoldering eyes and his knowing smile and his hands that looked like they knew exactly what to do with a woman’s body—I realized the last thing I wanted was to be rescued from this moment.
I wanted to dive deeper into it. I wanted to see how far down the rabbit hole went.
“No,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “I don’t need rescuing.”
Something dark and possessive flickered in his gaze. As If I’d just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking and now he was claiming his reward.
“Good,” he said, his voice low and certain, like he already knew how this night would end. His gaze dipped to my lips, then dragged back up to meet my eyes. “Because I’m not here to save you, kitten. I’m here to see how far you’ll let me take you.”
My breath caught. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat, my wrists, between my thighs.
The sounds of the interior room faded to nothing—the moans, the music, the slick rhythm of bodies moving together—until there was only him.
Only this moment. A choice laid out before me like a dare.
How far will you let me take you?
The answer should have terrified me. Because looking into those dark, hungry eyes, I knew a man like Tate could ruin me for anyone else and I wanted this.
Wanted him. He was talking about unraveling me.
Thread by thread. Layer by layer. Until there was nothing left but the woman I’d been too afraid to become.
And God help me, I wanted him to do it and gave him the permission he seemed to be waiting for. “Take me as far as you want.”