Page 79 of Midnight Curfew

The door ahead of me opens, and I dart my gaze from the monitors to Callum, seeing him turn to talk on the phone.

I didn’t need a tour anyway. I’d rather go at my own pace.

Purple and blue light fills the room ahead, and I step in, the smooth beats of the deep house music vibrating against my body.

Everything hits me at once. The darkness of the club, the black walls and purple couches…

The high ceiling with a dozen crystal chandeliers.

The small groups of people hiding in alcoves or gathered at intimate tables.

Turning my head, I find the door to the anteroom closed to me.

My chest falls, everything feeling heavier for a second.

Why the hell am I nervous? I’m never nervous.

I just can’t help but wish Iron was here, though. I’ve shared people before, and I’ve been watched but…

I hesitate, finally realizing I’ve never been watched by strangers.

Filling my lungs, I lift my chin and walk into the Wolfe Room. Nothing is uncomfortable after ten minutes, I tell myself. I belong everywhere.

Large seating areas fill the center of the room, an occasional couple sitting close, hands moving under tables and inside dresses. A few women stand displayed along the right, elevated on platforms but still within reach. Eye candy dressed only in nipple coverings, glitter, and tails, and as I pass alcoves and tables of other women in miniskirts, corsets, and red-soled heels, I understand there’s a difference between the two. It’s not only St. Carmen elite in here. The women displayed are brought in for variety, their scantily clad, perfectly proportioned bodies strapped to poles.

Makes sense. There are wives who don’t play, I’m sure. They need more women.

The smooth beats of the music filter through my head, down my body, and I sweep my eyes over some of the most perfect skin I’ve seen in my life. Trim waists giving way to shapely hips and asses, and I can’t help but want to watch these women move more than I want to know what they feel like. The beauty on display is incredible.

My mouth goes a little dry, and I have to swallow to wet my throat.

I would enjoy going slowly in here, watching for hours.

Drapes are pulled closed on certain alcoves, whatever’s going on in those booths demanding privacy.

Others are wide open, a woman spread-eagled on a table holding some man’s head between her legs as two others watch.

It’s a feast for the eyes. No overwhelming struggles or fucking to exhaust you before you’ve even started. Slight moans here and there, no screaming. Girls sitting in men’s laps, no grabbing.

Touching, tasting, taking their time…

Nothing I haven’t seen before, but this is on a much larger scale with a gathering of people who know exactly what they’re here for. Saves time, I guess. Seductions can be tedious when you just want to get off.

A circular bar sits toward the back, and I approach. “You have Palma?” I eye the bartender.

He nods and scurries to get it.

I’m not sure if they charge here, but I reach for my wallet as he brings the bottle back and starts to pour the beer into a chilled glass.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, taking the bottle.

He does a little bow of the head and moves away, and I take my hand back out of my pocket.

Turning back to the room, I soak in the kaleidoscope of color and music and smiling people, and after a moment, I notice the older men. A few young ones, but most of the guys are middle-aged. Established businessmen. I mowed their lawns in high school.

I walk around, passing a couch with a girl in a jeweled bra and belly chain getting it in both ends.

There are no older women, though. Definitely some in their forties, but it’s mostly new brides, young mothers, maybe some recent graduates finally returned from college.