“You sure? It’s complimentary.”
What the hell, I was thirsty. “Water?”
If it was a strange request, the bartender didn’t show it. “Of course.”
As he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice, the door at the back of the room swung open. The man who came in was built just like me. Tall, wide with broad shoulders. His suit, which was probably custom, fit much better than mine and subtly announced he was a wall of muscle. His head was shaved smooth, and his dark skin gleamed.
He strode toward me, a hand outstretched. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Webber. I’m Julius King.”
Even without his introduction I would have recognized his deep voice from our phone call earlier in the week. “Thanks for inviting me.”
His handshake was strong but not overbearing. “I came down from my office, because I like to have a conversation with new members. Get to know them before they go on back.”
The bartender set the glass of water down in front of me, and although Julius didn’t say anything, I could feel him mentally taking notes about my choice. Men came here to have a good time and spent a lot of money while doing it. Was the bar here to help clients relax, or lower their inhibitions to get them to part with more cash?
“What kind of girls do you like?” Julius’s straightforward question made my chest tighten, and my hesitation must have spurred him to continue. “There something in particular you’re interested in?”
I forced myself to act natural, even when I felt anything but. “No, just the ordinary stuff.”
My answer set off alarm bells, and Julius’s expression shifted to a guarded one. “You’ll have to explain why you’re here, then.”
I froze. “What?”
“A good-looking guy like you? You don’t come to my club for ordinary. You probably get ordinary all the time.” He softened. “If you’re nervous, don’t be. Trust me, whatever you want—you aren’t the first guy to ask for it. But I can’t get it for you if you don’t tell me.”
My pulse spiked. Was I going to blow this before I made it inside the actual club? I was going to have to give him something, but it was hard talking about this with a stranger, and I could hear my feminist friend Ruby’s angry voice in my head calling me a pig.
“Blonde,” I said. “Big tits.”
There wasn’t a speck of judgement from him. His tone stayed casual. “Do they need to be real?”
Bloody hell. I felt dirty admitting it. “Yeah.”
He nodded. “What else? Any wish list things?”
My head went blank. “Um . . .”
“Anal? Deep throat?” He scanned me from top to bottom. “Pegging?”
What? “No, I?
?m not interested in that.” My words came out tight, and with it, the accent I’d been trying so hard to disguise slipped out.
He lifted an eyebrow like he meant no offense. “It’s a power thing. Some of the big guys like being topped by a female half their size.”
Julius was a bigger guy.
He must have read my mind, because a slow smile drifted across his lips. “My girl’s five-two, and she’d look hot as fuck with a strap-on, but it ain’t my thing.” The light expression drained from his face. “Where’re you from?”
The way he shifted the conversation was impressive. I’d come to the club to research, but he was the one currently leading the interview. I picked up my glass of water and took a sip before answering. “Here.”
His eyes sharpened. “No, where’d you grow up? I thought I heard an accent. Australia?”
People sometimes confused my South African accent with an Aussie one. Some even thought I was British. But I’d been living in the Chicagoland area for fourteen years—and as a full-fledged US citizen for the last five—and could mask my accent when I tried hard enough.
I’d had to fill out a mountain of paperwork to get an appointment here, and I wasn’t sure how far down they’d dig into the fake profile I’d given them. I had to avoid any hints at my real identity.
I shrugged. “I grew up here.”