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I look down at my cheetah-print skirt and knotted white tee. “Well, I feel underdressed now.” Chin still tucked, he flicks his eyes up and his lips part. Before he can say the disapproving remark I’m expecting, I throw out, “Yeah, okay. I’m going to change.”
“No—” He pushes off the counter as if spurred into motion. “Fuck, no. You’re perfect.”
I shake my head, turning back toward my room. “I’ll be really quick—”
“Hey—hey.” He quickly closes the distance between us. His hand softly encircles my wrist, and he spins me. I fight the urge to pull away.
He lets go, hands in the air as if in surrender, then peels his suit jacket off. He sets it on the back of a chair then untucks his shirt before starting to undo the buttons. I watch, confused, silent, and, if I’m being honest, not all that unwilling to let him undress in front of me.
His shirt joins his jacket on the chair, and he stuffs the hem of his white undershirt back into his waistband, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips. “Now we’re even. There’s no reason for you to change.”
I refrain from adding that he might look even better like this. Without thinking, I pull his chains out from under his shirt. “There.” I pat his chest, and his eyes drop lustfully to my lingering hand. The look kicks up a storm in my stomach, and I quickly snap my hand away. “Suits were never your thing anyway.”
He holds out the crook of his arm. “Shall we?” And for the first time ever, when I link my arm with his, a small pattering of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
Libidine—Latin for lust, desire—feels like a nightclub designed by Nyx herself. It smells like expensive leather and even more expensive cologne. A red and purple neon sign on one wall that reads Sinners Welcome casts a hellish glow. Soft lighting mixes with the red and barely illuminates all the various nooks and booths, stages, and tables. Somehow, it makes everything and everyone visible, while also feeling hidden in the shadows.
Lochlan leads us to a small table in a tight semicircle booth, almost like a curved love seat. As soon as we sit, a cigarette girl in a 1920s inspired burlesque-type outfit glides over to us.
“Ms. Wright and Mr. Fox.” Her voice has a raspy hint to it, sultry. “It’s my honor to welcome you to Libidine. Let me know if there’s anything you need.” Next to single cigarettes on her tray are cigars, small bottles of lube, condoms, and matchboxes.
“Oban 18. Thanks, Lulu,” Lochlan says with a smile.
I watch their interaction, expecting lingering, heated glances, but he simply looks at me, waiting. “Oh, uh, mezcal on the rocks, please.”1
“Absolutely.” She smiles and Lochlan swipes a box of matches and a cigarette off her tray before she leaves. I watch her short skirt bounce as she walks, the bottom of her fishnet-clad ass flashing with each step. Again, I expect Lochlan to be doggedly locked on her, but when I look at him his eyes are only on me.
“So, Lulu, huh?” I ask, resting my forearms on the cool, black marble table.
He chuckles quietly, as if amused, leans back, and plays with the gold chain around his neck. “I didn’t hook up with her.”
“I don’t care if you did,” I dismiss.
“It’s okay if you do though,” he replies.
“I don’t care who you sleep with—even if I could keep track of all of them.” Injury flashes in his eyes before he laughs darkly, brushing his thumb across his bottom lip. Lulu comes back then and sets our two drinks on the table. He rocks forward and slides his across the table.
“It’s not like you care who I hook up with,” I point out.
Mischief sparks in the frosty blue of his eyes, darkened by the dim light. “That’s where you’re wrong—”
“You have no right,” I interject.
“Maybe.” He shrugs then raises the glass and his lips hover at the rim as he speaks. His voice is so quiet and low, I have to lean in to hear. “But that doesn’t mean the thought of you with someone else doesn’t make me burn with envy. It makes me want to pull you into my lap and bury my cock inside you right here so no one will try.”
Chills dance on the back of my neck, and I narrow my eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
He sets his drink down and fixes me with a determined stare as he delicately traces the rim of the glass with his finger. “Is that a dare?”
“No—” All at once, the lamps turn off like candles being blown out.
The red neon is the only source of light left. The club hangs in darkness for a few seconds before a halo of red light lowers onto the dais in the center of the room. A throne-like chair rests in the middle of the small stage. For the first time tonight, it is filled by a man in a black suit and balaclava. A woman kneels in front of him, her head resting on his thigh as a gloved hand pets her hair.
Raven-black hair. Juliette.
When she said she was performing tonight, I thought she would be singing, maybe a strip tease or pole choreography. Now, I understand why she called it a display.
She’s in nothing but a strappy lace bodysuit with a plunging neckline. The dais slowly turns, giving the full room a view from every angle. Truly on display. Ominous but sultry music begins to play, and I feel the bass deep in my chest, my heart pulsing with each heavy beat.
