Page 103 of Unbind

Rather, Ihopeit’s kinky as hell.

Alchemy’s new Manhattan home isn’t in a fancy brownstone, as I would have imagined, but in a huge former warehouse in the Meatpacking District. According to Adam, the team (especially Gen) had their hearts set on a brownstone, but getting permission for a sex club in any exclusive Upper East Side neighbourhood was a non-starter.

This is more discreet, too. Adam points out that guests who wish to come and go anonymously can use the underground parking garage to avoid the paps. Makes sense, I suppose.

There’s no discretion tonight. For those souls brave enough to flagrantly enter a sex club in front of a sea of cameras—of which my boyfriend is apparently one—there’s a full-on red carpet out the front. Adam gets out of his side of the town car (look at my American lingo) that brought us here and comes around to open my door. When I step out and get to my feet as elegantly as I can, my hand in his, the cameras flash, and I belatedly congratulate myself on the timing of coming clean to Stephen.

Having him see this shot in theDaily Mailwould have warranted a fun conversation.

The ground floor is gorgeous.It’s a totally different vibe to the London club—more industrial—but it’s still incredible, with its high ceilings and polished concrete floor and sheersize. It looks like there are several bars, their facades paying homage to the London venue’s backlit pink onyx one and their jewel-coloured bottles shining under the hanging copper lamps.

A glance around tells me a lot of the guests are here for a good party. The champagne is flowing, and hot shirtless guys wearing only black trousers and bow-ties are doing therounds with trays of drinks, but they’re also discreetly stamping the guests’ hands each time someone takes one. No one’s getting upstairs with more than two stamps on their hand, but I suspect it won’t matter for a lot of tonight’s partygoers, who are here to look beautiful and get papped and have a great time.

You can have a lot more fun with scale here than you can in a London townhouse—or a New York brownstone, for that matter. The stage is enormous, its red curtains hanging at its sides. Two beautiful women are spinning in golden hoops suspended from the ceiling, their crystal-dusted body stockings leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

Uh oh. I hope Max and Dex are willing to restrain Darcy tonight. One drink and she’ll be climbing up there to show off her talents. I’ve never seen her in action in the The Playroom, but I’ve heard her dancing is world class—and seriously sexy.

The people here really are beautiful, especially the women: toned and glossy and expensive. They must have invited so many models along tonight. I smile to myself. Cal did well—this is an incredible party. I recognise a few of the patrons from London, the guys in particular. What a shocker that they’ve shown up here. I bet they bit Cal’s hand off when he invited them. I get a lot of greetings and smiles and compliments, even a couple of kisses on my cheeks before my glowering, gorgeous boyfriend scares them off.

‘They’d better not think for a single second that you’re fair game tonight, just because you’re not on the front desk,’ he growls in my ear, his fingers flexing on my waist.

I pat his arm. ‘I’m pretty sure nothing about the way you’ve got me in a death grip says I’m fair game.’

‘Sorry.’ He has the grace to look embarrassed, but he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. ‘I just know what dodgyfuckers these guys are. Give them an inch, and they’ll take a fucking mile.’

‘Nobody’s taking anything except you,’ I tell him, tilting my mouth up for a kiss.

The music tonight is fabulous: a speakeasy vibe but with a modern, sexy pulse. As people drink up and warm up, the dancing gets going. The lights strobe, and I enjoy the sight of beautiful bodies in expensive threads giving it their all. I finish my mocktail—a delicious cinnamon and vanilla concoction—and drag Adam to the dance floor where the other Alchemy London representatives are letting rip.

‘We’ve never danced,’ I tell him, shimmying in front of him.

‘Not vertically, anyway,’ he drawls, hooking me at the waist and drawing me closer. I slide my thigh between his legs and start to move, throwing my arms around his neck. He gazes down at me appreciatively. I never, ever go out dancing, but God, I love it, and this slinky, sparkly dress was definitely made for dancing in.

‘Excellent point, Mr Wright,’ I purr. Fuck, he’s hot with that dark, dangerous look in his eyes. I reach up and tug at one end of his perfectly tied white tie so the ends fall flat against his dress shirt. It’s a good one—it even has those little screw-in black and silver buttons. He watches me in amusement.

‘May I remind you that the downstairs area has a strict clothes-on policy?’

‘Tell that to Cal.’

He laughs. Cal’s gone full gangster tonight in natty black and white spats, a white shirt, and red braces—suspenders, I suppose the New Yorkers call them. But his tie is long gone, and that shirt is now almost fully unbuttoned. I don’t think Aida, who looks sensational in a short black dresswith chevrons of jet beading, has played any part in undressing him. I think this is all Cal’s handiwork.

From the way he’s dirty dancing with her, I give them twenty minutes before they disappear off upstairs. I’ve already seen Gen, looking resplendent in custom McQueen, leading Anton up the huge, shallow metal staircase in the centre of the vast room. Clearly she has higher priorities than networking this evening.

I allow myself to soak it all up: the jaw-dropping surroundings, the sexy music, the glamorous women in their designer attire. This kind of sensory input is like crack for me. It’s pulsing through my veins, morphing into pure creative inspiration in my head.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll lie in bed and sketch some of the ideas that are coming to me even now, because a speakeasy theme for Gossamer’s next Autumn/Winter collection would be divine. Gold and black. Short and flirty. Sequins for days. It would make for perfect Christmas party wear.

As the ideas whip around inside me, another more primitive part of my brain is aware that my boyfriend is hardening against me. He’s not the only one getting worked up. Dancing with him, in this glorious, decadent place, has me on fire on all fronts. Thanks to the caffeine-laced IV Dr Dyson administered before we headed out for the evening, I feel on top of the world. I’m energised and excited and yes, aroused.

‘I can dance until you fall asleep in my arms,’ Adam whispers in my ear. ‘But anytime you want to go upstairs and see your surprise, just say the word.’ His voice deepens seductively as his hand tightens on my bottom. ‘Just remember, once we get up there, you hand everything over to me. Your power and your pleasure. Got it?’

OhGod.My pussy clenches at the thought of it, and I remember that the dancing part of the evening, fun and sexy though it is, is just a warmup.

The main event—my surprise, whatever it is—awaits us upstairs.

‘Let’s go,’ I say quickly, and he laughs and kisses me on the cheek.

‘Christ, I love how predictable you are.’

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