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Skylar's hand slips into mine, warm and soft. It feels right, dangerously so. For a moment, I forget why we're here. With her hand in mine, her body close as we navigate the packed dance floor, it’s like we're on a date.
A real date, not this complicated, dangerous game we're playing. I see us in the mirrored walls and we look good together. People seeing us for the first time would think we were a couple.
The thought thrills me. But as we approach the VIP section, reality crashes in. This isn't a date. I'm here to shield her from the unknown lurking in the shadows.
Thick velvet curtains block our view, and two imposing bouncers stand guard. The bouncers give us a once-over, their eyeslingering on Skylar as she shows them the access code on her phone.
“Eyes up here, fellas,” I growl, stepping closer to Skylar. She shoots me an amused look, but I can see the hint of a blush on her cheeks.
“Jealous?” she teases, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
I clear my throat, caught off guard. “Only doing my job,” I mutter, but we both know it's more than that.
We step through the velvet ropes into one of many small VIP rooms lining the wall facing the stage. The space is intimate, barely large enough for a handful of people.
The air is charged with a darker, more sensual energy. Red-tinted lighting casts sensual shadows across the plush furnishings.
A floor-to-ceiling one-way mirror dominates one wall, offering an unobstructed view of the stage below. I do a quick visual sweep of our VIP box. Force of habit.
Skylar is practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes darting around to take in every detail. Meanwhile, I'm coiled tighter than a spring, ready for anything.
She laughs lightly, nudging my ribs. “You’ll survive, tough guy. I promise.”
As we take our place near the back of the small VIP space, the lights fade, and the room falls into near darkness. The chatter from the rest of the club fades into the background, replaced by muted conversations and the occasional clink of glasses.
I force a smile. “This isn't my scene, but I'm here for you.”
Suddenly, she leans into me, her arm brushing lightly against mine. “Don't worry. I won't go anywhere without you.”
The contact sends a jolt through my body. I grab her wrist, pulling her closer. I can feel the possessiveness surging through me, and I don't try to hide it.
Skylar's breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. The moment is shattered when I notice a couple other patrons in our VIP room, their gazes lingering on Skylar.
A surge of protectiveness washes over me, and I straighten up, unconsciously pulling Skylar closer to my side.
Skylar's words from earlier echo in my mind—don't be bossy, don't scare people. But the protective instinct surges, impossible to ignore. I know that's exactly what I need to do.
When I pull away, Skylar turns, her brows knitting together.
My voice carries that unmistakable tone of authority as I address the room. “Listen up. I'm going to need everyone to clear out of this area. Now.”
A few startled looks, some grumbling, but they start to move. I catch the eye of a burly bouncer and beckon him over, pressing a thick wad of cash into his hand to keep the area clear.
Skylar blinks, looking stunned. “Garrett, what did you just do?”
I step closer, my voice low and intense. “Ensuring our privacy. Is that a problem?”
A blush creeps up her cheeks, but I see the smile tugging at her lips. “The VIP treatment, huh?”
“Better get used to it,” I continue, my voice low and husky. “Because I like making a fuss over you.”
As the lights fade, plunging our private box into near darkness, I'm acutely aware of Skylar's presence beside me. The one-way glass in front of us lights up as the stage beyond comes to life, and a figure emerges from the shadows.
Raven, I assume. She's dressed in a black leather bodysuit, holding a length of red silk rope.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she purrs. “Tonight, we explore the delicate balance of power and surrender.”
The performance begins, a mesmerizing display of intricate rope work that blurs the line between art and eroticism. Soon, the line between art and eroticism blurs. It looks suspiciously like Shibari, the BDSM rope bondage, not performance art.
