Page 84 of Bourbon and Proof

“Miss, how may I help you this evening?” a beautiful woman asks.

I clear my throat and smile. “I’m here to follow the white rabbit.”

When I chose a black lace mask from Tessa’s rather eclectic selection, she informed me that I needed to respond to that question correctly; otherwise, I’d be escorted to a bar on the other side of the hotel. She said,It keeps curious patrons from gaining access who haven’t been properly selected to join.

I did a little bit of shopping for tonight, too. Law’s sister owns a gorgeous boutique of casual wear and lingerie. There were a few cocktail dresses, and one in particular that caught my eye. It matched the mask perfectly. I was in the mood for bold. The long black lace dress is long-sleeved, cut to a midi-length, hitting right at the calf, and hugs every part of me. Since it’s lace, there’s a matching black balconette bra I paired with cheeky panties covering barely anything. It’s exactly what I would imagine wearing to a sex-positive club like this one.

When the next door opens, the low lighting feels moody and glows just bright enough around the bar that stands in the center of the vast room. It isn’t crowded, but there are plenty of people peppered throughout. Men in formalwear and women in complementing attire are more and less covered than I am. Too-large chandeliers hang low for ambiance, the light reflecting off the walls lined with a dark design that looks tactile. I want to touch it. A low beat of drums and an accompanying bass feels familiar—similar to Midnight Proof. This one thumps through the floor as a swoony higher trumpet or sax hums along the edges of the space. I can’t tell if it’s live music or a DJ, but Ican feel the low notes do the work and set the tone of the night ahead.

Tessa has explained they’d kept with the “women’s choice” concept that had been a part of the London sex club she and Law had visited. Women’s choice simply meant, women are allowed to approach men, but not the other way around. Other rules applied as well. Mask colors depicted interests. And if anyone had a hard limit or didn’t want to play, then they simply kept to the center room and could watch.

My skin is already flushed, the heat creeping into my cheeks. I’m eager to watch what’s happening around me and to find my husband. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re being admired. And maybe it’s just confidence in knowing who and what’s waiting for me, but I’m feeding on it.

I smile at a cocktail waitress who stops in front of me, a sheer black mask covering only her eyes, with bold, red painted lips. “French 75 for the beautiful woman in black lace.”

I have to tamp down the sheer anticipation of knowing exactly who ordered this for me and that he’s in this room right now. As I take a sip, the botanical taste of gin mixed with the sour splash of lemon eases down my throat. I practically hum at how well it’s made.

“You’re the most delicious thing I’ve ever seen, sugar.” Ace’s voice vibrates along my neck before he presses his lips against my skin. I knew he’d find me.

My mouth waters, thinking about his words and how often he’s tasted me. When I turn to look at him, he’s not wearing a mask, the cocky bastard. In a tux that isn’t too different from the suits he usually dons, he’s exchanged the usual white-collared shirt for black. And of course, no tie. It’s buttoned up just to the point where his chest hair is covered. I’m almost lightheaded at how intensely sexy this man is—broad and so much bigger than me, borderline arrogant, combined with well-manicured facialscruff that leaves the best kind of burns, and his salty dark hair...he’s my fantasy. No, better—he’s my fucking husband and, damn, do I want him.

“I could say the same thing about you,” I say, leaning into him as his hand grips around my hip and squeezes like he needs to hold on tight. “Tell me we get to play here tonight.”

“We get to play here tonight,” he says quietly, his words like a caress. “Tell me what you’d like to do.” For as much as I melt for his dominance, I can’t help but feel devotion at the way he defers to my wants.

As I focus on the details of the people around us—their closeness, the motion of their bodies, I swallow roughly. “Have you ever played in front of an audience before?”

“I have,” he admits. And the smile on his face is all that I need to know whether or not he liked it. “And I’d love nothing more than to allow strangers to watch me fuck you in all of your tight, wet places.” He pulls me closer into him as his other hand moves around me and down along my ass. His fingers dance along the lace of my dress, tracing the line where my panties end and my pebbled skin begins. “That what you want? For me to show everyone how much you’re mine?”

My mouth parts, and an escaping breath follows, my core aching already. “Yes,” I exhale.

“Yes, what?” he says as his mouth drags across the sensitive skin on my neck.

I know exactly what he wants to hear, even without looking at the smirk I can feel playing on his lips. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m going to ask for a room with a view.” His hand circles my waist tighter, and he growls as he peppers another series of slow kisses along the same path. “I’d like some of my bourbon to splash across your tits and drip into your pussy when I’m fucking you.” That visual has me suppressing a moan as his noseruns up and down the path he just kissed. “Now, be a good little wife and go get our bourbon.”

This fucker.“Good little wife?” I can’t help the way those words make me tense up and smile at the same time. He knew it would rile me up, too, simply by the smile he’s trying his hardest to keep from cracking. The low laugh that vibrates against my skin drenches my panties instantly. Hell, it’s the first time I realize I can be a feminist and still melt over dirty talk when it comes from Ace Foxx.

“Just go do it.” He pinches the curve of my ass. “We both know you’re the one who can boss me around every fucking way you want.”

With my French 75 forgotten, I smile at the bartender. “I’d like that bottle of bourbon,” I say, pointing to the Foxx Reserve on the top shelf.

“The entire bottle?” he asks.

When I nod, he doesn’t balk at the request, simply plucks the bottle and asks, “How many glasses would you like, miss?”

“Two would be nice,” I answer.

The woman to my right at the bar asks, “Do you think men like that are as good as the fantasy?”

I glance at the man she’s referring to. And of course, it’s my husband. “I do.”

She hums to herself first, and then says, “He’s got that daddy vibe, doesn’t he, with that silver raked through his hair? And the dark suit.”

I can feel her looking at me as I watch him and wonder how a place like this would do in our small town. A place where a woman can feel completely safe and able to act on her wildest fantasies. Whether it’s just for one night or a succession of visits. I know why he wanted me to see this place. It isn’t just for the playing and payoff. He wanted to see if this is something that Ithought could work—maybe in tandem with Midnight Proof, or maybe just on its own as something new.

The chatty woman runs a finger along the edge of her glass, sizing up a man who’s legally and unequivocally mine.

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