Page 14 of Masked Seduction
A short time earlier…
As soon as the Uber pulls away I immediately feel like I’ve made a mistake.
The club is tucked into a narrow alley off an unmarked side street, a set of sleek black doors set into matte concrete, guarded by a bouncer who looks like he could bench press a sedan.
Every single person waiting to get in is stupidly attractive. Glistening skin, sculpted bodies, daring little outfits that cling to lean frames like wet silk. Even the men look like they were genetically engineered for this place—chiseled jaws, dark suits, eyes sharp and hungry behind masks.
And the women... mygod. They’re statuesque, leggy, and barely dressed. Not one of them looks like they’ve had to second-guess their thighs in a dressing room mirror. I tug down the hem of my tight black dress. It hugs every inch of my curves, and suddenly, I’m all too aware of every one of them.
Claire must sense it. She bumps her shoulder against mine and leans in close. “You look hot as hell,” she says. “And I swear to God, if you try to tell me otherwise, I will turn us both around and walk straight back to the apartment.”
I manage a weak smile. “You’re not scared?”
Claire laughs. “Terrified. But that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”
We wait our turn in line, inching closer to the door. I watch as the bouncer turns a couple away—too drunk or maybe just not up to whatever unspoken standard this place keeps. I imagine him looking us over and deciding I’m not the right shape. That I’m not... enough.
When we reach him, however, he lifts the velvet rope without a word, his eyes flicking from Claire to me. I expect judgment. Instead, there’s something closer to approval. He opens the door, and Claire shoots me a smug look.
“Told you,” she murmurs as we step inside. “No one could say no to a hottie like you.”
The interior is darker than I expected—low lighting, warm red tones, sleek, black accents. We step into a narrow hallway lined with doors on either side, and even though we’re barely past the threshold, I can already hear the sounds of pleasure.
Moans. Deep, guttural sounds of pleasure behind the walls. Skin slapping. A woman laughing, breathless and high. The sound of someone begging, soft and urgent.
I keep walking, heart hammering in my throat. One of the doors has a panel of frosted glass, and as I glance sideways, I see the blurry silhouette of a couple tangled together. Her back arched. His hands gripping her waist. It’s all suggestion—shadow andmotion—but somehow it’s even more provocative than seeing the real thing.
My legs feel like they’ve forgotten how to work. Claire’s several steps ahead of me, walking with purpose, like she’s done this a dozen times.
I pause just for a second and remind myself how to breathe.
What am I doing here?
Is this a terrible idea?
Claire turns when she notices I’m not beside her anymore. She grins, a gleam of mischief in her eye. “Come on, babe,” she says. “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
I swallow hard and follow her in, each step feeling like a point of no return.
The hallway opens into a world unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Sultry shadows, crimson light, music with a bassline that pulses like a heartbeat. The air smells of perfume, sex, and something heady—like incense left to smolder too long. I follow Claire through the club’s curved interior.
A woman reclines in a swing suspended from black iron hooks, her thighs parted, two men tangled around her like vines. One kisses her bare shoulder, slow and reverent. The other slides her panties down her legs with a grin like he’s unwrapping a gift. I can’t help but stare. She moans, the sound slipping beneath my skin like velvet heat.
Further down, a couple is pressed to a mirrored wall, oblivious to the audience. Her fingers rake through his hair, her dress hitched high.
Claire’s talking excitedly, but her voice is just background noise. I’m too overwhelmed—in a good way. My dress feels too tight yet not tight enough. I’m nervous, but more than that, I’m buzzing. Turned on. Every inch of my body alive.
We reach the main floor, and it’s stunning—sleek and polished, with black leather booths and low amber lights casting everything in soft gold. A chandelier of black crystal drips light above the dance floor, where bodies sway and grind in a hypnotic rhythm.
But it’s not just dancing. A woman straddles a man’s lap in one corner, his hands under her dress, her head tipped back in pleasure. No one seems to mind.
Claire’s beaming. “Isn’t this amazing?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“C’mon,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
She leads me to the bar. On the way, a masked woman locks eyes with me. She’s dancing alone, languid and sensual, like she knows exactly who she is. I feel awkward by comparison, like I’m pretending at confidence I don’t quite have.
