Page 36 of Dirty Little Secrets
“No, thank you,” I whisper, needing a layer of protection. Plus, I am not dressed nearly nice enough to remove my jacket. “I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” Damon asks. “It can get…hot in there.”
“I’m fine,” I murmur, flashing the gorgeous women behind the desk a small smile. To Damon, I quietly add, “I feel underdressed.”
He chuckles to himself, whispering back. “Oncewe’re inside, you’re going to feel overdressed.” Because, supposedly, everyone will be naked. I don’t strip off my jacket, blushing at the thought. “Suit yourself.”
“Enjoy the show.” The blonde’s flirty gaze bounces between me and Damon. “It should be a good one.”
“The show?” I ask in a hushed tone as Damon regrips my hands, leading me through the lounge toward another guard situated at the far end of the room. “I’m so confused.”
“Patience, Miss Jones,” Damon says, handing the card to the guard who pockets it. He punches in a code on the door, a mechanical huff of air releases as it creaks open. Damon cranes his neck, brimming with amusement as he asks, “Ready?”
The second we step through the threshold, an overpowering balmy scent of sex and debauchery permeates the air. Overlapping moans, some soft, some rough, float into my ears, the erotic pants immediately causing my heart to race and my core to clench.
“Welcome to Club Hades, Miss Jones,” Damon rasps as I take in my surroundings.
Plush, blood-red carpet softens our footsteps as we stride down the rococo-inspired halls, intricate crown molding shading the ceilings, rustic sconces with flickering candles the only source of light. The ruby walls guide us down a labyrinth of sin and sensuality, the whimpering breaths of euphoria getting louder as we turn the corner.
“These are The Playrooms,” Damon explains as we enter a long hallway, eight separate rooms book ending the dark path.
I swallow, heart racing with wonder and winding excitement as we slowly stroll past the double-paned glass walls. Some curtains are drawn closed, and no sounds escape, but I know that something filthy is happening mere inches away from me. Silently, I detach from Damon’s hold and float toward a room where the curtain is drawn open, the sliding door open but a fraction.
Like a twisted anthropologist studying a remote and distant tribe, I stop in front of Playroom Five. A part of me feels uncomfortable, like I shouldn’t be here watching, gawking, and examining their ritual. But the curtain is open. It’s an invitation. My mouth dries as I watch the young woman on the bed, her limbs tied with thick rope to the posts. A man straddles her, his erect cock resting atop her unkempt bush. In his hand, a candle burns bright, a puddle of hot wax pooling on the surface. The woman struggles against the restraints, her lust-filled eyes locked on the man’s as she begs.
“Please, Daddy…”
Heat rushes to my core, and I can feel my panties dampen as he grins down at her, tilting the candle, the wax slowly dripping into the valley between her heaving breasts. I can’t look away.
“Temperature play,” Damon explains, hovering behind me as he wraps his arm around my waist. His hushed words tickle the slope of my neck, a spider-like shiver crawling down my spine as I lean into his touch. “Do you like what you see, mami?”
“Mhmm…” I hum, overwhelmed by the sight of it all. My skin burns under my jacket as heat flows through my body.
Damon releases a dark, growling chuckle under his breath, grazing the side of my head with his stubble. “Of course you do, my dirty little slut.”
My breath hitches, but I don’t say a word. What is there to say? It’s like I’m in a dream. An illusion showing me all the wicked things I wish I could experience. But I don’t need to wish. Not anymore.
“Let’s keep going,” Damon says, turning us back down the hall toward a symphony of overlapping primal groans and provocative pants. My body vibrates, literally shaking my limbs from pure exhilaration as an open space full of dozens of licentious bodies comes into view. “This is The Playground.”
I swallow a gasp as a carnal jungle appears before me. My gaze darts to all corners of the room, unable to focus, unable to concentrate. On the couch, a black-haired goddess grips the shoulders of a man whose cock thrusts in and out of her pussy, another man filling her ass, the slaps rippling her skin.
On the table, a young woman rides the slurping lips of another woman being fucked, her head thrown back as she cries from pure pleasure. My head spins from the chaotic beauty of it all. It’s like a Renaissance painting. No matter where I look, I see something new. A detail I’ve previously missed. Like the cock rings squeezing one man’s balls so tight they look like they’ll explode. Like the clamps on one woman’s nipple, the surrounding skin a decadent shade of red and blue.With every glance, I see more. More pleasure. More pain. More fucking life.
“Are you wet right now, Miss Jones?” Damon’s rough voice amps up my heartbeat, and I turn to face him, cheeks flush with arousal. A dark gleam coats his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I’m hoping he’ll touch me. That he’ll put his hands on any part of me. But he doesn’t. He just smiles. “We should continue.” He nods down the hall toward a black wooden door. “The Tower is this way.”
“The Tower?” I ask, trailing behind him as I shrug off my coat, unable to remain cocooned any longer.
“The Viewing Tower,” Damon elaborates, opening the door to a modernized amphitheater. Rows upon rows of velvet couches ascend the slope of the room, overlooking a caged stage on the bottom level. I swallow, coating my parched mouth as a nude woman enters the stage and kneels in the center, palms resting on her thighs, her head hung low. Damon offers me his hand as we climb the stairs toward empty seats. “We call that The Pit.”
“All of these people…” My gaze sweeps across the dozens of occupied seats. “They’re here to watch?”
“Correct. It’s—” Damon’s explanation gets cut short when a deep, melodic British voice calls out his name.
“Cavanaugh?” We both turn around, peering down toward the bottom of the stairs. Dressed in a three-piece burgundy suit, ashy hair combed elegantly to the side, a blue-eyed man, similar in age to Damon, grins up at us. The red-haired woman pressed against his hip, adjustsher white fur stole, keeping her timid gaze lowered. “I thought that was you.” Damon stiffens beside me as the man strides toward us, eyeing me inquisitively. “I’m surprised to see you here, Cavanaugh. We all thought you might have gone straight on us.” He smirks, turning his attention to me. “Who’s your friend?”
Damon’s neck twitches as he grunts out, “Emery, I’d like you to meet Quinton Marquis.”
I place him immediately. Dr. Quinton Marquis—GQ’s latest Man of the Year. CEO of NovaTech Pharmaceuticals. Philanthropist. Big Pharma Golden Boy. England’s most wealthy expat. And evidently, a sex club member. That wasn’t included in the four-page spread.
