Page 3 of His to Unwrap
Maybe we hadn’t just shared the connection I’d imagined. Maybe he watches other dancers the same way he always seems to watch me—hell, maybe that’s just his expression.
Maybe it’s all in my head.
NOELLE
Twenty minutes later and I’m back in the lounge, this time fully covered in my street clothes, no Christmas tree nipple tassels in sight. I removed most of my smoky eye make-up but kept the red lips—they seem appropriate for the holiday season.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” Jared, one of the bartenders says, sliding a glass of red wine across the bar counter to me. I give him a grateful smile.
“Remember the two drink minimum if you want to go play behind the steel door tonight,” he says with mock sternness.
I hold up the glass. “This is my first and only, promise.”
I haven’t decided if I’m going back tonight, but it doesn’t matter either way. I’m not much of a drinker, and one glass of wine is pretty much my limit, no matter what extracurriculars I may get up to.
The owners of this fine establishment pay their entertainment staff very well, but that’s not why many of the girls choose to work here. There’s a perk that comes along with our employment, a perk that some people would willingly pay tens of thousands of dollars for.
A limited membership to Club Wyld.
That membership allows me to go into the back rooms and take part in scenes—as a submissive. Management is very clear that what happens behind the steel door has no impact on our employment. We’re being paid to entertain up front, not to submit to the rich and powerful Doms in the back. Everything is above board in a place as classy as this.
But it’s pretty clear they hope we will participate. The club needs plenty of young, unattached submissives in order to keep the Doms happy. Sure, there are some submissives who are financially secure enough to purchase their own membership, but the number is small. Apparently rich and powerful men are more likely to spend obscene amounts of money to buy a membership in a sex club. Go figure.
And that’s where we come in. After our shifts or on nights off, we’re allowed to go back and participate in any of the depraved delights taking place. We don’thaveto. No one has ever pressured me or Brittney to do anything—consent is paramount at Club Wyld. But most of the girls choose to play. Hell, most of the girls only applied here so that theycouldgo back and play.
So it’s an arrangement that works out for everyone. The club gets lots of subs and the girls get their every fantasy met by some of the most powerful men on the east coast. Win-win.
Jared leans his forearms on the bar, and I don’t miss the way his gaze looks me over. I’m dressed in my usual non-work outfit—a simple little black dress that hits just above the knee and a pair of ballet flats. It doesn’t really matter what I wear up here. If I decide to go into the back, I’ll just be taking it off anyhow.
“You on for the rest of the night?” I ask.
Jared nods, eyes dancing with heat. “Yup. But my shift got a lot less interesting now that you’re not out here dancing.”
I roll my eyes at him. Jared is a terrible flirt.
“Bourbon,” a gruff voice sounds from next to me, and I practically fall over twisting in my barstool to see Roman standing there, glaring at Jared.
“Sure thing, Mr. Clarke,” Jared says easily, apparently missing the daggers shooting from the bigger man’s eyes.
“No,” Roman snaps. “I want Kendra to get it.” He jerks his head to the other side of the bar, where several people are waiting. “You have a line. Go take care of it.”
If Jared is put off by Roman’s rudeness, he doesn’t say a word. Merely gives me a nod and moves down the bar, stopping to murmur something in Kendra’s ear when he passes her.
I sit still, clutching the stem of my wine glass, unable to look up at the man towering over me. There’s a weird energy coming off him, like he’s angry, maybe. He certainly sounded angry when he just barked at the bartender, and that’s saying something—it’s not like he’s usually sunshine and roses.
But I can also feel the heat of his gaze on me, and that has my heart pounding hard all over again.
“Here you are, Mr. Clarke,” Kendra says, placing a fresh bourbon in front of him. “I hope the Old Carter is to your liking?”
“That’s one of my favorites, thank you,” he says, still gruff but slightly less pissed-off sounding.
“You all set, Noelle?” Kendra asks, and I finally force myself to lift my eyes to meet hers.
I hold up my still full glass of wine. “All good.”
She winks at me. “You were great out there tonight. Totally hot.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, acutely aware of the man next to me.
