Chapter 4
Stella
The room I’d been watching from the shadows—the one filled with writhing bodies and desperate moans and pleasures I’d only ever imagined—was about to become my stage.
The realization hit me as Tate led me through the doorway, his hand warm and steady around mine. The viewing alcoves that lined the walls were no longer abstract observation points that I’d hidden behind. They were audiences. And oh, shit, I was about to become part of the show.
My steps faltered.
Tate felt it immediately—of course he did, the man seemed attuned to my every breath—and he stopped, turning to face me. His dark eyes searched mine, and I saw the question there before he even asked it.
“Having second thoughts?”
I bit my bottom lip. Yes. No. Maybe.
I glanced past him into the room. Most of the beds were occupied, couples and groups in various stages of undress, lost in their own worlds of pleasure.
But around the outer wall, those windows looking in held watchers, their faces half-hidden in shadow, their attention currently fixed on the scenes before them.
Soon, that attention might shift to me.
“I just...” I swallowed, trying to find the words. “People will see.”
“They might.” Tate’s voice was calm, unhurried. “Does that excite you or scare you?”
Both, I wanted to say, but even as the nerves twisted in my stomach, I felt something else unfurling beneath them. Something that had been awakened by his fingers between my thighs, by the orgasm that had shattered me so completely I’d forgotten my own name. Something that wanted more. Wanted this.
I’d come this far. I’d let a stranger touch me in ways no one ever had.
I’d discovered parts of myself I hadn’t known existed.
I’d boldly given in to desires I’d spent years pretending weren’t there.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’d go back to my ordinary life.
Back to fabric swatches, polite smiles, and the carefully curated version of myself that never dared to color outside the lines.
Back to being Stella Hayward, the girl who never caused trouble, who never took risks, who never lived life to the fullest.
But tonight wasn’t tomorrow. Tonight, I was someone else. Someone braver. Someone who let a handsome, dangerous man lead her into a room full of strangers fucking and didn’t apologize for wanting what she wanted.
One night, I told myself. One night to be wanton and uninhibited and free. One night with this man I’ll never see again, in a place where no one knows my name. One night to collect memories I’ll keep forever, even if I never speak of them to anyone.
I met Tate’s eyes and lifted my chin.
“It excites me,” I admitted, and the truth of it burned through my veins like liquid courage. “I want this. I want you. I want...” I gestured vaguely at the room, at the beds, at everything. “All of it.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Approval, hunger, maybe a hint of surprise that I’d found my nerve so quickly. His grip on my hand tightened.
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured.
His praise washed over me like warm honey. I’d always considered myself a good girl in a negative sense and not something to be proud of, but the way he said those words made me melt. Made me feel claimed and cherished all at once. I wanted more of his approval.
He led me deeper into the room, weaving between occupied beds with the confidence of someone who’d been here many times before.
I tried not to look too closely at what was happening on either side of us but my body registered all of it.
Heat pooled between my thighs, still sensitive from what Tate had done to me in the alcove.
We stopped at a bed tucked into the corner of the room.
It was smaller than the others—twin-sized, dressed in crisp, clean white sheets that seemed almost clinical against the decadence surrounding us.
He’d chosen one of the beds with sheer curtains that hung from a canopy frame above, creating a gauzy cocoon of semi-privacy.
Through the fabric, I knew I’d be able to see the shapes of other occupants moving in the room, could still hear their sounds of pleasure, but the details would be softened. Obscured. As ours would be.
Somehow, that made it easier.
Tate drew back the curtain and I stepped inside, my eyes immediately going to the headboard. Black leather cuffs dangled from the wrought-iron frame, their buckles gleaming softly in the dim light. My pulse stuttered at the sight.
Then I noticed the shelf mounted to the wall beside the bed.
It was a display case of sorts, lined with objects that made my cheeks flush and my core clench simultaneously.
Nipple clamps with delicate chains connecting them.
Vibrators in various sizes and shapes, some sleek and modern, others curved in ways that promised very specific kinds of pleasure.
A leather paddle, its surface smooth and well-worn.
A ball gag that made my throat tighten just looking at it.
Bottles of oil and lubricant. A feather. A blindfold.
An entire arsenal of sensation, laid out like a menu.
“Those are for us to use,” Tate said, coming up behind me. “If we want. Nothing happens tonight that you don’t explicitly agree to. Understood?”
I nodded, my mouth too dry for words.
“Good.” His hands settled on my bare shoulders. “Now, let’s get you out of this dress.”
He found the zipper and drew it down slowly.
The fabric loosened around my body, and Tate eased the cap sleeves off my shoulders.
They slid down my arms, the material catching briefly at my hips before pooling at my feet with a soft rustle.
He gently turned me around so he was looking at me.
I stood before him in nothing but my silk underwear and heels.
His sharp intake of breath made me feel powerful and desired as his eyes dragged over me like a physical touch.
From my face to my throat to my full breasts—bare now, my nipples already peaked in the cool air—to the dip of my waist and the flare of my hips.
I wasn’t small and petite. I had curves, and he seemed to savor every single one of them.
I felt his gaze linger on the scrap of silk between my thighs, and something predatory flickered in his expression. “Those too,” he commanded. “Take them off, but leave the heels on because they are hot as fuck.”
My hands trembled as I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and slid my underwear down my legs. I stepped out of them carefully, leaving them in a puddle with my dress, and straightened to face him.
Naked. Completely, utterly naked, in a room full of strangers, with only sheer curtains between me and their gazes. I waited for the embarrassment to come. The shame. The instinct to cover myself, to apologize for my imperfect body, to shrink away from such blatant exposure.
It didn’t come.
Instead, I felt liberated. Like I’d shed more than just my clothing and I’d stripped away years of expectations and inhibitions and careful, careful control.
“Get on the bed,” Tate commanded, his voice thick with lust. “On your back. Arms above your head.”
I obeyed, climbing onto the cool sheets and positioning myself as he’d instructed. The mattress was firm beneath me, the pillow soft under my head. I stretched my arms up toward the headboard where those leather cuffs were waiting, and felt my heart rate spike.
Tate came around to the side of the bed, his big hands surprisingly gentle as he lifted my right wrist and guided it into the first cuff.
The leather was softer than I’d expected, lined with what felt like suede against my skin.
He tightened the buckle just enough to hold me without cutting off circulation, then repeated the process with my left wrist.
I tugged experimentally. The restraints held firm. I wasn’t going anywhere unless he allowed it. The realization sent a bolt of arousal straight to my core.
“Comfortable?” Tate asked, checking the fit with his fingers.
“Yes.” My voice came out breathier than I’d intended.
He smiled—that slow, wicked, dimpled smile that made my stomach flip—and leaned down to brush his lips across mine.
“Taffeta,” he murmured against my mouth, reminding me of my safeword.
The word I could use to stop everything, to bring us both back to reality, to end this game if it became too much. The reminder told me something important, that what was about to happen wouldn’t be the careful, tentative sex I’d experienced in my limited past encounters.
This was going to be something else entirely.
“I remember,” I whispered back.
“Good.” He pulled away, rising from the bed to stand beside it. His gaze never left mine as his hands went to his shirt buttons. “Then eyes on me. I want you to see what’s about to fuck you senseless.”
He undressed with efficient movements—no teasing, no theatrics, just the confident disrobing of a man who knew exactly what he had to offer.
The shirt came off first, revealing a toned torso that made my mouth water.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, firm abs that spoke of regular training.
A scattering of dark hair that trailed down past his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his slacks.
His hands went to his belt. The buckle clinked. The zipper rasped. He pushed his slacks and boxer briefs down in one motion, stepping out of them with athletic grace. And then he was completely naked.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I’d seen naked men before. In person, in pictures, in the artful lighting of the scenes I’d witnessed tonight. I thought I knew what to expect. Thought I had a reasonable frame of reference for the male body in all its variations.
I was wrong.
Tate was magnificent. All hard, solid planes and coiled power. His thighs were thick with muscle and his arms corded with strength, but it was his cock that made my brain short-circuit.