Page 6 of Salacious Desires

Crap. I really need this job. The pay alone is huge for me but medical benefits and tips are the cherry on top.

Giving him a wide smile, I straighten my shoulders. “But I can handle any job as a cocktail waitress, no matter what kind of club this is.”

He studies me for a long moment, and the silence between us is painful. I shuffle my feet slightly, trying to release some of my awkward energy.

“Lily, Edge is a BDSM club. People openly have sex on the second and third floors. You would be around it on a regular basis.”

A shiver runs down my spine. BDSM? I’m not sure what that is exactly, but I’m certainly not going to ask Drake. He already looks like he’s ready to walk me back to the reception area and push me out the door.

People openly having sex in front of strangers? Is that normal? I’m not sure.

The only experience I have with sex is with one man, and that wasn’t by choice. It was in the dark, in one position, and each time, it lasted for less than thirty seconds. I always went to the bathroom and cried afterward. Thankfully, he didn’t want it very often.

Since I moved to Seattle, Hannah has shared some things with me about her intimate life, and now I know that sex is meant to be pleasurable, but I still have a hard time grasping that. It’s always been painful for me.

I really need Hannah to show me how to use the internet because I have a feeling I won’t be able to find much information about BDSM in the local library.

Keeping my smile big and wide, I bob my head up and down. “That’s no problem.”

I’m not sure if it’s actually no problem, but I’m going to say whatever is needed to get this job.

Drake eyes me suspiciously before he strides forward. I practically have to jog to keep up with him. Sheesh, he has long legs.

“It’s extremely important to be discreet here. You’ll be required to sign an NDA upon hire. We have members who pay five thousand dollars a month to belong to this club because they like to keep this part of their lives private.”

I trip when he says that, but thankfully, I catch myself before I fall. Did he say five thousand dollars? That’s more than I made in my entire time working at Al’s Diner. Who can afford that?

“Lily, I don’t mean to sound rude, but this is the third time you’ve nearly fallen over since we met. How am I supposed to trust that you can serve drinks without spilling them on someone?”

My shoulders slump, and my tummy clenches. He’s not wrong. But I’m not normally this clumsy. There’s something about Drake that throws me off guard.

“This isn’t usual for me. I swear. I’m nervous. You can test me. Give me a tray full of drinks. I won’t spill a drop.” My words come out rushed and jumbled as panic vibrates in my chest.

Crap. This isn’t good. He thinks I’m a clumsy mess.

“Please. I need this job.”

I sound pathetic and desperate, and I guess I am. At the moment, I have no pride. I need the medical insurance.

Drake takes a step toward me, his broad shoulders blocking everything else in the room out. He studies me for several beats, his dark eyes pinning me in place.

“You’re going to need to wear something a bit sexier if you want to make any tips. We don’t have a strict dress code for staff here, but you won’t make any money dressed like that. The cocktail servers usually wear dresses or skirts.”

Glancing down at my clothes, I wince. Right. Sexier. Except I have nothing that would be considered remotely sexy. Hannah can help me. She dresses cute, and her husband calls her sexy all the time.

“Um, I, sure. I can do that.” I offer a soft smile, hoping it reassures him. I don’t think it does, though, because he frowns.

“What’s your story, Lily?”

I lower my gaze and swallow. Is he allowed to ask that? If I share everything with him, will he tell me to get lost?

“Lily.” His voice is deep and commanding. When he reaches out and hooks his finger under my chin, I startle from the touch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset or frighten you,” he says, pulling his hand away.

Shaking my head, I let out a deep breath. “You didn’t frighten me. I’m just, I’m not used to being touched. Sorry.”

The air crackles around us. Maybe I should go.

“You’re not used to being touched?” His question stings; and the way he asks it—full of confusion and pity—hurts.

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