Think Outside the Boss - Olivia Hayle Page 0,4
guards in uniform would ruin the mood. “So they step in if anyone gets too rowdy?”
“Yes, but that rarely happens. Few pay to get in here only to tempt a lifetime ban.” He lifts his crystal tumbler and drinks, the long column of his throat moving.
“You’re not wearing a mask. Wasn’t that one of the rules?”
He shoots me a look. “Some rules can be broken.”
“By the right people?”
He lifts a shoulder in an elegant shrug. Not denying it, not confirming it. A suspicion grows in my mind, and I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not the owner of the Gilded Room, are you? The operator?”
“Christ, no.”
“You know a lot about how it works.”
“It’s not my first party,” he counters. A second later and I feel the warmth of his hand on my arm. “Care to sit down?”
He nods to an empty couch nearby, further concealed in shadow. A pounding of nerves explodes beneath my breastbone. His hand falls away. “Women have all the power,” he reminds me. “You say the word and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
“What’s the word?”
“‘Go away’ usually works, but that’s two words.”
I laugh. “I’ll stick with that, then. Though it’s not very polite.”
“You can add please to it, if you like.”
“How kind of you.” We sink down on the couch, the leather cold under my legs. I cross them and clasp the champagne to my chest like a weapon. “So you’re a regular?”
“I suppose you could call me that.” He drapes his arm along the back of the couch, hand resting somewhere behind my head. We both look out over the crowd of people. What had seemed so orderly when I first arrived is now broken up, people divided into pairs or smaller groups. And dear God, a woman is completely naked on a couch across the room. Completely, one hundred percent nude. She’s draped over a man’s lap, his hands on her breasts. Another is working between her splayed legs.
I swallow at the sight. “Performers, too?”
“I doubt it,” he murmurs. “They just got inspired.”
Perhaps my silence says it all, because he laughs quietly, stretching out long legs in front of him. “I have to say, gorgeous, that you have me curious.”
“Curious?”
“Yes. How did a woman like you end up with an invite to the Gilded Room.”
I frown. “A woman like me?”
“So clearly strait-laced,” he says, meeting my gaze with one of his own. “Someone who loves being in control. Who fears letting go.”
“I don’t fear letting go.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I blow out a breath. “All right, I do, but I’m sure everyone does to some degree. Do you think it’s holding me back here tonight?”
“I don’t know. Do you think it is?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “So far I’m watching a performance of live sex… well, almost-sex, while having a conversation with a perfect stranger. I’d say I’m letting go already.”
His smile flashes. “It’s not almost-sex anymore.”
I look at the stage and then quickly away, my gaze settling back on his face. His smile widens at my expression. “I’m not shocked,” I protest.
“Sure you’re not.”
“Not strait-laced at all.”
“Then look,” he challenges.
So I do. I turn full toward the stage, to where one of the women is riding the man handcuffed to the chair. The look of pleasure on his face makes it clear he bears the weight of restraint gladly. The pounding of my blood rises as I watch them, the silky movement of her hips and the glaze in his eyes. The way they revel in us observing them.
“Okay,” I murmur. “I get it.”
“The appeal?”
“Yes.”
His deep laughter rolls over my skin like soft thunder. “Not so opposed to being a voyeur after all.”
“I suppose it has its appeals.” I wet my lips and drag my gaze from the stage to him. “You know, I think anonymity does too.”
“It certainly does,” he agrees. “Even if you know someone inside of here, you’re not allowed to acknowledge it.”
My eyebrows rise. “Let’s say I knew your name. I wouldn’t be allowed to call you by it?”
“No. Some people do break that, though.”
“The couples who come here must.”
“They’re the worst offenders.” He tips his head back and drains the last amber liquid in his glass, a thick watch on his wrist. It looks expensive.
“But you’re not here with someone?”
“I’m not,” he confirms, reaching past me to set down his glass. The movement brings with it the scent of whiskey and sandalwood. “Nor are you.”
“How are you so sure?”
“I doubt a