Page 584 of Hell Hath No Fury
Shaking my head, I say, “No, we just met. I’ve never been to one of these things before.”
“Would you like to—”
My phone buzzes in my purse and I give the man an apologetic smile. “I really apologize, normally I wouldn’t be so impolite as to answer a phone like this, but I was supposed to meet someone before I came here.”
He nods. “Of course. It was nice to meet you…”
“Stella,” I supply, then take a few steps away toward a secluded corner, pulling my phone from my purse. I’d nearly forgotten about my blind date and guilt settles low in my stomach.
Even a momentary brush with this new, dark, and needy flavor of sex has my blood thrumming hot in my veins. It has my mouth going dry, so I’m thankful when I realize it’s a text and not a phone call. I put in my code and navigate to my text messages.
Mikhail: Stella, I hate to get off on the wrong foot before we’ve even first met, but we’ll have to reschedule today. I’ve had an emergency with a patient and can’t get away. Are you free Saturday? Your mother mentioned you like the theatre. I have box tickets.
Somewhat relieved and disappointed, I tap out:
That sounds wonderful. Just let me know what time and where.
I wander back to the crowd of people, feeling more in my element now that I don’t have to worry about being caught by one of my mom’s coworkers at a meeting for a sex club. When I get another text, I glance at it, perhaps a little too eagerly, and I’m sorely disappointed when I realize its from my ex.
The waiter comes then and I order a grilled chicken salad with another glass of wine. I don’t want to get drunk, but I definitely need the social lubrication. He brings the wine immediately and I gulp half of it down within seconds.
Tension grows between my shoulders, locking me up tight. What the hell am I doing here with these strangers? I have to be some sort of fucked up to be excited by it. By the prospect of going to a club like this. And, God, do I want to. Based on the topics floating around, I’ve only scratched the surface of all the kinds of sex and kink possible.
I don’t know whether I should be turned on by those possibilities…or running in the other direction.
Natural gravity, or perhaps orchestration, has me sitting between the woman, Tally, and the man I’d spoken withbefore. Around me, conversation flows and is as diverse as the participants. It volleys from the newest and most effective methods of spanking, to retirement funds, and tax preparations. Much as I’m used to crowds, even I become overwhelmed by the rapid-fire change in subjects.
“You don’t strike me as a submissive,” says the man next to me, his eyes warm, but inquisitive. “What exactly is your kink?”
I take a sip of my wine before answering. “To be honest, I’m not really sure,” I tell him in a stage whisper.
With amused interest, he says, “Never been to a club like this before?”
“I’m going to show my naiveté, but to be honest I’m still not sure what this club is exactly.”
He leans back in his seat, taking a drink from his own short glass of amber liquid. “I think you know more than you think.”
“Whips and chains,” I say offhandedly. A joke, but I think we both know I’m not really joking.
He winks. “And more. But I don’t think you’re into that so much.”
Fascinated, I lean an elbow on the table and prop my chin in my hand. “How can you tell?”
“Well for one, you don’t have a problem looking me in the eye. In fact, you seem more concerned about how other people are looking atyou.” He pauses, before his smile turns rueful. “Mores the pity. I’d love to get my hands on you.”
Glancing down at my plate of untouched chicken salad, I remind myself these people deal with discerning wants and desires from everyone they interact with. Unused to the scrutiny, I fidget in my seat, toying with my fork. “I guess you can say I enjoy the spotlight. I was an actress.”
“Was?”
See? Discerning. “I just recently moved back to the area from New York.”
“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Now it makes sense.”
Frowning, I say, “Excuse me?”
Before he can respond, the dinner comes to an end, and the others start getting to their feet. Standing, I polish off my glass of wine, my head spinning more from the sudden turn of events than the alcohol, and I push in my chair. What had he learned about me in such a short conversation that I hadn’t been able to figure out in twenty-four years?
“You should come on Friday,” he says as he helps me from my chair.
