Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Yet, when we’d stepped into the lobby of the Onyx Casino and he’d placed his hand on my elbow, my entire body felt electrified.
Oversensitive.
Needy.
Shit, I’m in so much trouble.
I’m on edge because I’m terrified that Declan can tell I’m on edge. That I’m plumped, primed, and every other embarrassing scenario that could take place in front of this gorgeous, enigmatic man.
“Are you nervous?” he asks as we enter the elevator that will take us to the top floor that houses The Wicked Horse.
“Not really,” I reply.
I’d done some research on it, surreptitiously, this afternoon. It’s a private membership club with a hefty fee I could never afford, but I don’t think this is what Jeff meant when he’d suggested a sex club. He knows I could never afford this place.
Separated into themed rooms, it seems as if pretty much anything goes. Surprisingly, Declan had told me today that over fifty percent of the membership were actually monogamous couples that came here just to play in an open environment. He assured me everything was safe and tasteful, but that things could get a little “crazy” at times.
The thought of what might constitute “crazy” has my nerves feeling like electrified wires.
When the elevator stops and the doors slide open, I brace for what I might see. Declan ushers me out, and, frankly, I’m… well… let down. It looks like we’re in an upscale bar with plush seating, dim lighting, and a massive bar with three bartenders serving drinks to sexy, well-dressed couples.
From behind a podium, a hostess greets us. “Good evening, Mr. Blackwood.”
Declan doesn’t respond. He merely inclines his head.
Hand tightening on my elbow, he asks me, “Would you like a drink?”
“Uh…” I demure.
“You’re tense,” he mutters, guiding me to the bar. “I can feel it pouring off you in waves.”
I don’t disagree, and yes, a drink would relax me. “I’ll take bourbon… neat.”
Declan chuckles as we head to the bar. “Relax, Miss Robbins. Just remember that what goes on in here is consensual and fun. Everybody has sex. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I’m not,” I assure him, pulling my arm from his grasp to look up. “It’s just… I’m a little nervous in an environment with my boss that is about as far from what an employee and a boss should be doing.”
“I promise I won’t bite,” he says with a wicked grin, then turns his attention to the bartender to order two bourbons. When he angles back toward me, his eyes twinkle as he adds, “Unless you ask me to.”
A blaze of lust and need sweeps through me, causing my spine to tingle and my skin to warm. I can feel the heat in my cheeks. Declan must see it, too, because he’s far too observant not to. Plus, he’s smirking.
The bartender brings our drinks and I don’t respond to his last baited statement. Instead, I pick up my glass as I glance around. “To be honest, I sort of expected to walk into a porn movie.”
“You’ll get there soon enough,” Declan replies as my gaze comes back around. “But there’s a civilized component to this club I enjoy, and that’s an element I wish to carry over into the new resort. The ability to have a few drinks to unwind and relax. Maybe enjoy some conversation.”
One eyebrow arches involuntarily, denoting my skepticism. “Conversation? Really?”
Declan shakes his head, an amused twinkle in his eye. “You must have a conversation before sex, Bailey. Otherwise, how do you truly know if your attraction is well-matched and mutually returned?”
That momentarily sets me back. I have a hard time envisioning Declan Blackwood making a personal connection before sex. It’s the antithesis of what I saw when that woman stormed out of his suite, calling him an asshole, a couple of weeks ago.
I’m not quite sure what he sees on my face, but he explains. “Now, I’m not saying I want to hear about a woman’s dreams and aspirations, nor do I care about her political ties or her fiscal responsibilities.”
He leans in a bit closer to me as we stand at the bar, lowering his voice. “But I most certainly want to know her intimate preferences. Is she only into vanilla or does she like a little kink? Is she a fan of anal or is she too afraid to go there? Does she spit or swallow?”
His words are crude, yet shockingly sexy. Making a split-second decision, I stop looking at him as my boss. Instead, in this wanton environment, I decide to treat him as any other member of an exclusive sex club. I consider this outing to be market research of sorts, which lets me be affected by his words without feeling guilt over fantasizing about my employer.
Taking a sip of my bourbon, I relish the burn as it slithers down my throat and into my belly. In an attempt to act unaffected, I keep my question benign. “Are there people here who like vanilla sex? I mean… this is a sex club. Isn’t it all taboo stuff?”