Page 14 of Gilded Caresses

“Is Belle Constantine in her dressing room?”

The hostess is already shaking her head and gesturing for me to follow. “She’s waiting for you in the private viewing room for a drink before her show.”

Just like Belle. A little pre-party before the real deal.

I follow the hostess out of the reception area with its high chandeliers and large floral arrangements. The clack-clack of our heels on the marble floors is the only sound until we reach the lounge. Notes of low-tempo music pipe into the spacious atmosphere and each vibration works to free the remaining tension in my body. My gaze draws to one side where a long bar is backdropped by a wall of multi-colored bottles. You would think the first thing you see walking into a sex club is sex, but not so much. They leave that for the specialty rooms on the levels above.

Members spread out along the expansive black marble, some standing while others enjoying the lavishly cushioned leather stools with their top-shelf liquor. All speak in soft voices and give off a mellow vibe in the contemporary setting.

All of this is in stark contrast to Genesis. To me anyway. My cousin and his friends seem right at home in their mobster club, but to me, my senses are always on high alert for lurking danger.

Where on the flip side, the clean lines, muted lights, and golden elegance of The Society work together to wrap its members in sensual acceptance. No chance of meeting people like Snake Eyes here.

I follow the hostess past the bar and through a black door with a simple, elegant golden plaque that reads Mirror Room in smooth black. It’s one of many showrooms, according to Belle. I haven’t ventured outside of this room much so I am sure thereare delights to be discovered for the adventurous types on the other levels.

I pause before stepping inside the room. Every cell in my body is on high alert. Clashing desires send my heart racing. I want to see them, but at the same time, I’m afraid tonight I might be the one to approach them.

Or they could not be here at all.

That thought is killed off the moment I cross over the threshold into the soft-lit room.

Their presence is felt before I lay eyes on them.

They sit in the same booth with the same bottle of vodka. Same dire expressions on their stoic faces. There’s a problem and the solution isn’t obvious. Why that thought enters my mind is probably due to dealing with issues all day long and noticing the signs.

But their problems are not mine to solve.

Out of habit, I note the members already gathering in other various booths. The square ones along the outer wall feature lavish velvet curtains and removable tables that sink into the floor. Two booths away is where I spot Belle waving me over.

Toward the center of the room are various-sized settees in black leather that circle the low stage in the center of the room. No walls. No curtains. Those are reversed for the members who find sharing their passions with others just as much of a turn-on as the act of sex itself. Above us is a ceiling of reflective glass.

I have to admit, it’s not my style, but I love watching others find what makes them happy. It’s addictive.

My attention falls to the group of men and their tattooed hands again. I don’t know why I feel shocked when the one facing me raises his eyes.

A shiver runs up my back.

I swallow, feeling my pulse race. It’s okay. It’s not like they know who I am or can read my thoughts.

I stroke the pads of my fingers over the pulse point in my wrist. It grounds me. Reminds me to breathe when my nerves soar.

I know the one facing me. Gregor Zakharov. Russian mafia. Dirty blond, green piercing eyes and looks about as friendly as a hungry bear.

We stay like this, staring at each other for several heartbeats. It’s only seconds probably but it feels longer. Those green eyes of his are unwavering. The man to his side turns and now I have the fierce attention of two mafia men.

Jesus. They are intense.

The second man is Lev Pavolov. The name is all too familiar. There are not many nights when the news isn’t filled with one or all of the Southern Alliance men. Absurdly good-looking. Black hair, startling dark eyes. While the pure heat on his friend’s face makes me curious about my darker desires, this one uses his body language to say the second I’m close enough I’ll regret ever letting him near my virginity.

Heat fuses every blood cell in my veins. Fire licks up my body and I can’t tell if I like the burn of the flames or if I should fear them.

With all the curtains drawn back, my reflection catches in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors encompassing the entire span of theroom, hence the name. I see what they see. The lust glimmering in my eyes. My lips part and crimson flushes my cheeks.

“Ma’am, if you’ll follow me, please,” the hostess says, but I don’t move.

I can’t. Curiosity flickers over their expressions and reflects in mine.

The mirrors don’t lie.

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