I expect him to tease me sexually. To insist that I pull the dress up and sit with my bare ass on the seat despite the fact that our table has no cloth. Or that he’ll slide his arm around my shoulders and stroke his thumb casually over my nipple for anyone who is dining to see.
But he does none of that. Instead, he orders for us, and we spend a lovely two hours finishing off an incredible bottle of wine and indulging in duck foie gras, rack of lamb, and an absolutely marvelous mille-feuille. The latter, which we call a Napoleon back in the States, is one of my favorite pastries, and this one is about the best I’ve ever put in my mouth.
All in all, it’s a wonderful dinner date with my husband, and my only disappointment is that Damien seems to have entirely forgotten tonight’s original plan. Even when the plates are cleared and we’re finishing the last of our coffee and brandy, he doesn’t mention the club at all.
Instead, he pays the bill, extends his hand to help me up, and guides me out of the restaurant.
I consider saying something, but this entire trip is Damien’s show, and we talk quietly about Paris, sights he wants to show me while we’re in town, and similar travel-related conversation. On any other trip, I’d be fully engaged. Now, I’m wondering what game he’s playing.
It’s not until we’ve actually stepped inside the hotel that he pauses, then turns to look at me directly, his head cocked. “You haven’t said a word. Should I assume you’re relieved that we’re not going to the club?”
“We’re not?” I hear the disappointment in my voice, and Damien must as well, considering the way he’s smiling.
“That depends. It won’t be like last time,” he says. “Are you prepared?”
I raise a brow. “You’re asking me? I thought this whole exercise was about pushing my limits. Facing my fears.”
He doesn’t answer. His small smile is enough, because it tells me that he has something intense planned. And he’s giving my imagination the full length of the ride to the club to imagine every decadent possibility.
“With me,” he says, then leads me back through the doors where a limo is now waiting for us. We get in, and I notice my trench coat is laying across one of the seats. I swallow, wondering…
As soon as we are underway, he orders me to strip.
“I—”
I don’t finish the sentence. Damien’s look of approbation cuts me off too quickly. Instead, I pull the shift up over my head, then sit back as Damien looks me up and down, my skin tingling from the intensity of his gaze. “You are so damn beautiful,” he says. “How can I not show you off?”
My heart lurches in my chest. The first time we came to À la Lune, he’d specifically told me that he didn’t want me naked, though many of the other guests—men and women—were. He said he didn’t intend to share even the sight of me.
But a lot has changed since our honeymoon, and I wonder what additional boundaries he wants to push tonight. The possibility that he wants me bare in the club scares me, and I consider what I’ll do. I can call sunset—he will never push me past my safeword. Or I can trust that he is right. That I’ll survive the embarrassment and the fear that—despite the club’s strict vetting of its members and even stricter rules about privacy and no photography—some image of me will make it into the tabloids.
What if it did?
That would be hell, no doubt about that. But would it ruin my marriage? My friendships?
I know that it wouldn’t.
What about my kids? It wouldn’t be easy, but they’re young enough now to not even notice, and by the time they are old enough to care, the tabloids would have moved on. If they dig it out at some point, though…well, it wouldn’t be my first choice of a conversation to have with my kids, but I would survive.
So would my business, if any of my clients get wind of the photos. It would be awkward and strange, but the bottom line is that this trip is about trust and fear. And if Damien wants to push me that way, I trust him…and I can overcome my fear.
He is still watching me, and I draw a breath. “Is this how you want me in the club? Should I wear the trench coat for the walk from the limo to the door?”
“Is that what you want?”
I meet his eyes straight on. “I want what you want.”
“Not afraid?”
“I’m afraid,” I admit, then lift my chin. “But I’m yours. I won’t argue.”
He cups my cheek, then kisses me gently. “You’re amazing, Mrs. Stark.”
I smile up at him, knowing that the title is one more way of claiming me.
He opens a compartment behind the bench on which we’re sitting, and pulls out a white box, like the kind his shirts come in. He hands it to me, and when I open it, I find a blue strapless dress made of the thinnest of material. It has a slit up one thigh, and nothing but an elastic band to keep it in place above my breasts.
“Put it on,” he orders, and when I do I realize that although it is sheer, the swirls of blue are placed strategically, so that the darker areas cover my breasts and sex. I wouldn’t wear it to the grocery store, but for this club, I will be more covered than most.
“Can I wear this in there? I thought they provided sarongs.”
“For those who want them.” He lifts the last bit of tissue out of the box. “You’ll wear this, too,” he says revealing two black masks. Enough to keep our identity hidden from anyone who doesn’t already know us—which, presumably, includes these French guests.
“We didn’t wear masks last time,” I point out. In fact, the only time we have was at Masque, when he took me on the balcony, where anyone who cared to look up could see.
“Last time, we watched from an alcove. This time, the only one I intend to watch is you.”
My mouth goes dry, as his words have confirmed my suspicions, but I nod, take a deep breath, and try to calm the butterflies in my stomach. Butterflies that are borne of both nerves and a building sense of desire.
It’s easy enough to enter the club. Damien is a member, having renewed that privilege before our honeymoon. He accepts a robe, then goes to change in the dressing room before leading me into the heart of the club. Unlike Masque, which has an elegant, cocktail party feel to it, this club makes me think of Roman orgies.
There are several rooms, many with hot tubs filled with naked men and women, some lost in their own passion, others who watch as Damien and I walk by. Most days, I would assume that it’s Damien they’re watching. That confident walk, that godlike body. But tonight, I know that it is me. Several of the walls are mirrored, and I’ve seen my reflection. The gown allows for modesty, but not consistently. When the light hits it, even the dark blue areas turn transparent, giving anyone who’s looking a glimpse of my body underneath. But, thank goodness, only a glimpse.
After doing the pageant circuit for so many years, I’m used to being on display. But this is different. And, strangely, not unpleasant.
“You like this,” Damien says, his low voice rumbling through me. “The way they look at you. The hint of your body they see when the light is just right.”
“I do,” I admit, holding my head high.
“Why? Tell me what it is that excites you.”
I glance down, my gaze directed to my arm, and his light grip on my bare flesh. “I like that they know I belong to you. I like that it makes me proud.”
“Baby,” he says, his voice low and full of heat and promise. He tugs me into a curtained alcove, across from which a woman is laid out naked on a bench, a man’s face buried between her thighs.
I tremble, watching the two of them from this secluded place, through filmy curtains that hide less than my dress. Damien moves behind me, then tugs down the top of my dress so that he can cup my bare breasts. I breathe in sharply, then sharper still when he moves even closer and I feel the press of his erection against my lower back.
“Tell me what you see,” he demands, as the fin
gers of one hand tighten on my nipple and the other snakes down to slip inside the slit of this barely-there dress. His fingers dance lightly over my clit, and I gasp as heat sizzles between my sex and my nipple, a wild passion rising. A wanton need. “Nikki,” he urges. “Tell me.”
“She’s close.” I’m watching the way the woman arches up. The curve of her neck, the shape of her back. She’s shifting her hips, as if that will guide him to that sweet, sweet spot. I imagine it’s me on that bench, Damien’s tongue on me, so intimate and yet so open, my pleasure there for anyone to see.
“What else?”
“She’s close, but he’s teasing her.” I can feel her desire, and I hear it reflected in my voice. “She wants it to last as much as she wants to go over.”
The woman’s eyes are open, and for a moment they land on me. I see a hint of a smile before a fresh wave of fire crashes through her and she arches up, her moans echoing in the small room.
“She knows we’re watching,” I tell Damien, then turn in his arms so that my breasts are pressed against his still cinched robe. “She likes it.”
His lips brush over mine as he shifts his hands, easing my skirt up. He cups my ass, then slides one hand lower, easing between my legs to find my core. Slowly—so deliciously slowly—he eases two fingers inside me. I draw in a breath, then move my hips, slowly riding his fingers. “You like it, too,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the side of my neck, causing a zillion sparks to crackle through me.
“Do you remember what I told you last time? When you asked why it turned you on so much?”
“Because they’re a mirror,” I say. “They reflect back my own desires.”
His fingers slip out of me, and I moan in protest, only to be silenced when he spins me around and kisses me gently before stepping back and taking my hands. “Come with me,” he says, and before I can protest that the top of my dress is still gathered around my waist, he leads us past the curtains.