Dirty Little Secret: A Billionaire Romance Duet - Mika Lane Page 0,31

looked around the first floor at the party already in full swing. People dancing, flirting, making out. My heart pounded in time to the bass-heavy house music and the sexy buzz in the air. An expensive perfume drifted by.

M fluttered off to greet another guest.

I wasn’t exactly an old pro at this sex club thing, but at least I pretty much had the lay of the land down. I got myself some bubbly, which gave me time to scope out the happenings. G was supposed to be there, but I doubted he’d recognize me—he hadn’t the other night—which gave me time to snoop around untethered. I’d make myself known to him when I was ready to, and in the meantime enjoy the party. And of course, gather information for the story.

I couldn’t forget about the story.

Drink in hand, I squeezed between the packed bodies on the first floor. As usual, there wasn’t a ton of playing going on; most people seemed to save that for the smaller rooms. Perhaps the intimacy of those spaces, like the one where I’d seen G, lent themselves to really getting down and dirty. In the open space of the first floor, people for the most part mingled, aside from the few couples kissing in dark corners. Hardly anything to waste one’s time watching.

Was I becoming jaded or what?

As I climbed the steps to the mezzanine, I had an unspoiled view of the crowd below. M stood chatting, all Hollywood glamour in her cream-colored gown, watching me from the far side of the club. She raised her glass to me. I raised mine back.

Once upstairs, I scanned for G. I wanted to see him before he saw me, and I waved at the bartender who’d run off the night before.

No G, at least not yet.

I roamed past the dance floor and toward a small room I’d never seen. My mouth fell open.

In it, there were eight or so women in various stages of undress—some of them with thigh highs and boots, others with leather bustiers, and still others with lacy boy shorts and sky-high stilettos. They lay on silky tufted mattresses in a tangled pile of limbs—fingers and tongues exploring. I drifted in for a closer look.

There were no men in sight.

Two women were doing sixty-nine. The woman on top buried her tongue in her partner’s sex, causing the woman on the bottom to scream and thrash.

Another woman, on her own, slid a clear glass dildo coated in lube up and down her wet slit, her head writhing in delight.

I turned as a woman stepped into something with straps and buckles, tightening both to take up the slack. Holy shit. It was a strap on, and she began to stroke like it was her own cock.

Chapter 22

Saffi

I was so blown away by the hot as hell girl-on-girl scene unfolding before me that I nearly missed the vibrating phone in my skirt pocket.

I tore myself away from watching the woman using a strap-on, glancing back as I left. I had to admire their complete dedication to pretending the big faux-penis was a real, live cock. After all, they’d stroked and sucked it like it was. And then, fucked each crazy other with it.

you coming? a message from G said.

Was he already there? And if so, where? I looked around in panic but his distinctive mask was nowhere in sight.

almost there, I lied. I needed time to run to the ladies’ to rinse off the sweat I’d accumulated. And of course hide my mask.

I finger combed my hair and touched up my lipstick. Hid the mask in my purse. Ready to go.

I headed for the first floor, with no idea where G might have been, to try and pretend I was just arriving. And there was M, watching me, like always.

Did she know something?

But I ignored her. From my position on the stairs, I evaluated the floor below. No sign of G. He wasn’t likely on the third either since that seemed to be where the hard-core partiers hung out. I ventured back to the second, where I approached the bartender I’d kissed the night before.

I beckoned him closer with a finger. He didn’t recognize me without my mask, which was just as well.

“Hey, maybe you can help me find a friend. His name is G, and he wears a full-length mask. Venetian style.”

The express on his face changed, becoming downright unfriendly. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

Whoa.

I poured on what hoped was just the right amount of indignation.

“Relax.