Page 6 of Think Outside the Boss

I laugh. “I’ll stick with that, then. Though it’s not very polite.”

“You can add please to it, if you like.”

“How kind of you.” We sink down on the couch, the leather cold under my legs. I cross them and clasp the champagne to my chest like a weapon. “So you’re a regular?”

“I suppose you could call me that.” He drapes his arm along the back of the couch, hand resting somewhere behind my head. We both look out over the crowd of people. What had seemed so orderly when I first arrived is now broken up, people divided into pairs or smaller groups. And dear God, a woman is completely naked on a couch across the room. Completely, one hundred percent nude. She’s draped over a man’s lap, his hands on her breasts. Another is working between her splayed legs.

I swallow at the sight. “Performers, too?”

“I doubt it,” he murmurs. “They just got inspired.”

Perhaps my silence says it all, because he laughs quietly, stretching out long legs in front of him. “I have to say, gorgeous, that you have me curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yes. How did a woman like you end up with an invite to the Gilded Room.”

I frown. “A woman like me?”

“So clearly strait-laced,” he says, meeting my gaze with one of his own. “Someone who loves being in control. Who fears letting go.”

“I don’t fear letting go.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I blow out a breath. “All right, I do, but I’m sure everyone does to some degree. Do you think it’s holding me back here tonight?”

“I don’t know. Do you think it is?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “So far I’m watching a performance of live sex… well, almost-sex, while having a conversation with a perfect stranger. I’d say I’m letting go already.”

His smile flashes. “It’s not almost-sex anymore.”

I look at the stage and then quickly away, my gaze settling back on his face. His smile widens at my expression. “I’m not shocked,” I protest.

“Sure you’re not.”

“Not strait-laced at all.”

“Then look,” he challenges.

So I do. I turn full toward the stage, to where one of the women is riding the man handcuffed to the chair. The look of pleasure on his face makes it clear he bears the weight of restraint gladly. The pounding of my blood rises as I watch them, the silky movement of her hips and the glaze in his eyes. The way they revel in us observing them.

“Okay,” I murmur. “I get it.”

“The appeal?”

“Yes.”

His deep laughter rolls over my skin like soft thunder. “Not so opposed to being a voyeur after all.”

“I suppose it has its appeals.” I wet my lips and drag my gaze from the stage to him. “You know, I think anonymity does too.”

“It certainly does,” he agrees. “Even if you know someone inside of here, you’re not allowed to acknowledge it.”

My eyebrows rise. “Let’s say I knew your name. I wouldn’t be allowed to call you by it?”

“No. Some people do break that, though.”

“The couples who come here must.”

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