7
Mel
West shuts the door. The music outside fades away entirely. He looks straight at me, and his smile promises wicked sin. “Tonight,” he says. “You are all ours.”
Have you ever had a dream where you could fly? I used to get them all the time. I’d soar through the sky, green fields rolling underneath me, and glide on invisible air currents. Sometimes, I’d be aware that I was dreaming. Sometimes, a small part of me knew it wasn’t real, but it wasn’t enough to yank me back to reality. I kept flying.
That’s what this feels like.
Rob and West are talking to me. They’re interested in me. They’re touching me. My mind feels hazy in the best way. Tonight seems magical, filled with possibilities. Removed from time and from consequences.
I look around the Romanov Room. This is a private room in a sex club, and I guess on some level, I expected it to look sordid. I imagined sticky floors, dried stains on the couches, and a wastebasket overflowing with used condoms.
But of course, Club M caters to the extremely wealthy, and this room is appropriately opulent.
This room is nothing like I was expecting. It’s looks like the bedroom suite of a Russian tsarina. The wallpaper is a deep shade of red dotted with golden fleur-de-lis. There’s a sitting area with an elegant tan leather rolled-arm couch, a matching loveseat, and a couple of sturdy-looking wooden chairs.
There’s a four-poster bed in the middle of the far wall. Ornate, gilt-framed mirrors line the wall, along with a carved wooden wardrobe that presumably holds sex toys, whips, and chains. Or maybe that’s my imagination getting ahead of me. A side table has water and refreshments.
Oh, and there’s the Saint Andrew’s Cross. Can’t forget about that.
I’m nervous, of course I am. Everything about this situation is new. The sex club, the bondage implements, having a sexual encounter with West and Rob—it’s a shocker that I’m not freaking out more. But much more potent than my trepidation is the heady anticipation that thrums through my blood.
I’ve wanted this for so long.
“Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way,” Rob says. “I want to make sure all of us feel safe and know what to expect.”
I drain the rest of my glass of wine and set it down on the nearest flat surface. “Good idea.”
“What’s your fantasy tonight, kitten?” His voice is a hypnotic murmur. “Do you want us to make you come? Do you want to have penetrative sex? Do you want to be tied down on the bed? On the Saint Andrew’s Cross that you can’t drag your eyes away from? Tell us what you want.”
Oh wow. I thought he’d tiptoe around the topic, but no, Rob Yarrow does not tiptoe around anything. I guess I should have already known that—I am more than familiar with his management style, after all—but I didn’t expect it to carry over to sex.
It’s more than a little hot. It’s such a turn-on to be asked what I want. At this moment, I am the sole focus of their attention. They’re waiting for me to tell them what I need from them, and then they’re going to spend the next few hours making my fantasies come true.
If only I can make myself voice my needs out loud.
I tell myself to breathe. I plant my feet firmly on the floor and inhale a slow, deep breath. On the exhale, words start spilling from my lips. The product of a year of forbidden desires and secret fantasies. “I want to be taken,” I whisper. “By both of you. Separately and together.” I gesture to the ominous-looking bondage furniture in the corner. Ominous, yet exciting. “I’m new at this, so maybe go a little slow? But I want to be tied down. I want you to restrain me. I want. . .”
I want the two of you to make me the object of your desire.
Rob moves closer to me. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the couch, and then he slowly, deliberately, undoes his cuffs and rolls up his sleeves. He takes off his watch, sets it on the table, and glides his thumb over my lower lip. “I think,” he says slowly, “that we can help you with that.”
I stare into his blue eyes, fighting the urge to part my lips and suck his thumb into my mouth.
West steps away from the door and into the room. He moves behind me, his breath warm on my neck. “If the three of us are going to play tonight,” he breathes into my ear. “We need to communicate. We need to all be on the same page.”
The way we’re standing, I’m sandwiched between my hot bosses. Rob in front of me, West behind me. Heat rises in my body and resonates between us.
“Let's go over a few ground rules, Cat,” West murmurs. His fingers gently thread through my hair. “You need a safe word. When you say it, everything stops.”
A shock of desire jolts through me. I’ve heard about safe words; I don’t live under a rock. I never thought West Fontaine would tell me I needed one though. I never imagined that he’d run his fingers through my hair, slow and meditative, and I sure as hell didn’t think it would turn me on so much that I can barely stand.
One night with them was supposed to fix my attraction. It was supposed to slake my curiosity and extinguish my lust. But what if it doesn’t?
“How about I use stop?”
Rob shakes his head. “It needs to be something that you wouldn't normally use in a sexual scenario,” he explains. “We’ll both respond to stop, but the club monitors need something else. How about the traffic system? Red to stop, yellow to slow down, green if you’re okay?”