Page 53 of The Spare

Selena

Sometimes I do things on impulse, and I have no idea why, and this is most definitely one of those times.

When Athena told me she and Benedict had had some sort of orgy together—I don’t even know if that’s the right word for a situation like that—I freaked out. All I could think was if that’s his bag, he must think I’m so boring. I mean, I’m so vanilla. So inexperienced. So my instant solution for that level of insecurity was to do something about it. Meet him nearer to where he is. Step out of my comfort zone.

But now I am stepping out of my comfort zone and right up the smart limestone steps of a very smart townhouse in the heart of Mayfair, a stone’s throw from the Arts Club and Victoria Beckham’s flagship, and I’m regretting that impulse pretty damn fully. Because, in a short while, the very husband I’m trying to impress will realise that his first impressions were correct and that I’m a total sex wimp. I don’t even have the excuse of having been thrust into a shock marriage. We’ve had more sex since we tied the knot than I’ve ever had in my life.

Athena and Gabriel sign themselves in, as do Soph—as I’ve been instructed to call her—and Ethan, and Benedict gives the elegant young woman on the front desk my name. She greets him with familiar enthusiasm—clearly he hung out here a lot in his bachelor days. Tonight is a learning curve for sure: not only did my husband have an active bachelorhood, but it was far kinkier than I realised.

We go through to the bar, which Ben has assured me is a strictly clothes-on space—thank Christ for that—and the sheer wow factor takes me aback. We could be in Annabel’s, or Maison Estelle, or any other swanky private members’ club. There’s a fabulous bar stretching along the length of the far wall, all backlit pink onyx, the Kelly-green-upholstered barstools lined up in front popping perfectly against it. I’d snap a picture for my Pinterest boards if photography wasn’t strictly prohibited for obvious reasons.

The clientele is just as elevated as the club itself. My assumption was that the members would be more… alternative than this, I suppose: lots of latex and bondage gear and fuck knows what else. But, while the clothing, particularly of the women, leans towards the daring side, the vibe is more Alexander McQueen and less I bought this in a Soho sex shop.

Thank fuck.

Obviously, the group we’ve come with should have been an auspicious sign that this place is the real deal. Ethan, Brendan, and Gabriel are all disgustingly wealthy, even if Athena is busy giving away all the Sullivan family’s money and Ethan walked away from his own family’s hotel empire just over a year ago. Not for these guys some grubby little sex club.

I accept a glass of champagne, and the bartender stamps my free hand. There’s a strict two-drink limit if you want to go next door, apparently.

Next door.

The huge wooden double doors at the end of the room taunt me. Through them lies The Playroom, the zone where it all goes down and clothing is most definitely not mandatory. The thought of such in-your-face public sexuality makes me feel physically ill. Ben’s told me several times on the slow cab ride over from the Docklands that I don’t have to do anything here. We can just have a drink, he said. No pressure.

I know he meant it. After all, he still seems taken aback that I suggested this stop before we go back home to my lovely, cosy townhouse. But while I may want no part of a place like this, some perplexing piece of me does want a part of the kind of guy Ben is in a place like this. Athena told me I was ‘in good hands’; she implied that my husband is some kind of maestro when it comes to orchestrating sexual scenes. I might be telling myself that I’m here as a gesture towards his needs, but I’m undeniably aroused at the prospect of putting myself in these ‘good hands’: properly, with the stabilisers off.

And where better to shed my usual sexual hang-ups than at a club built to celebrate desire?

I sit in the lovely surroundings and urge myself to relax, to soak up the beautiful views and animated conversation. Soph and Athena certainly seem right at home here. Apparently, they both met their husbands when they were working for them—what are the chances? A pang of envy hits me at the clear evidence that these guys are perfectly suited to their other halves. If this is part of the world Ben gave up to save my pride, my reputation, then I bloody well owe it to him to meet him halfway.

By the time we’ve enjoyed our second glass of Bollinger Grande Année, I’m feeling pleasantly buzzed and marginally less apprehensive. After all, we got stuck into the cocktails back at the reception. I suppose Alchemy can’t monitor what alcohol is consumed off the premises. I lean into Ben and whisper, ‘Are there any private rooms here? I don’t think I’m ready for the Playroom, but…’

I trail off, the but my olive branch.

He turns to stare at me, the naked hope on his gorgeous face breaking my heart a little. ‘You sure, sweetheart?’

I nod. ‘Yes.’

‘Then yeah, there are more rooms downstairs, and you can access them straight from reception. Let me go and speak to the front desk.’

He practically bounds off his seat and heads back out the way we came.

Athena raises a quizzical brow at me. ‘You getting stuck in tonight?’

‘Ahh—no, I—’ I laugh nervously. How the hell is she so poised about walking into an orgy? ‘Ben’s asking about a private room. Baby steps.’

She nods approvingly. ‘Good for you. You two are the scandal of the decade, in the best possible way. May as well get even more scandalous while you’re here.’

Going downstairs to where the overflow private rooms are feels akin to descending into hell. Alchemy’s version of hell, though, is richly embellished with midnight blue lacquered walls and bronze sconces that throw subtle crescents of light onto the walls above them. Our room has a huge bed: black satin sheets and pillows, no covers, and a cabinet, also lacquered, whose intricacy conceals God knows what.

I spin around at the thud of the door shutting behind us. Benedict turns the key in the lock with an ominous click and leans back against the door, sliding his hands into his pockets. He’s already thrown his jacket onto the bed. There’s something so sexual, so predatory, about his stance, head lolling against the door, posture relaxed, eyes trained on me.

He’s a lion who knows he has his supper cornered.

‘So, princess,’ he drawls, ‘what’s this really about, then, eh?’

I tilt my chin up and double down on my story. ‘I don’t want you to have to give up your hobbies just because you married me. It’s not fair.’

He barks out a laugh. ‘My hobbies. Got it.’ A pause while he continues to size me up. ‘It’s not that Athena got you the teeniest bit curious, is it? Want to make proper use of me?’ I don’t gratify that with a reply, instead crossing my arms under my chest. He pushes off the wall and saunters towards me. ‘Did she tell you what I did that day?’