by Alex Rosa
This time I’m the one releasing a doozy of a breath.
“What’s wrong?” Nate asks, tossing his keys to the valet as we walk inside.
I shake my head, my eyes blinking as they adjust to the neon glow. The hostess appears behind the podium with a glowing iPad again.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just had to reality check myself.”
Nate doesn’t respond. He simply nods, as if he knows what I’m talking about, but I want to tell him he doesn’t have a clue. There’s no way he understands how I feel about all of this.
“Evening, Mr. Sanders. How are you?”
“I’m great, Nina. I have a reservation.”
A reservation? My mind perks up. I become even more curious when he squeezes my hand. It’s almost endearing.
Why do I keep doing this to myself? Let’s not put emotion where emotion isn’t needed.
“Oh, I see it here, Mr. Sanders. It’s not for another thirty minutes. We’ll text you when the room is yours. Please enjoy some drinks at the bar until then.”
Nate doesn’t smile, but he isn’t callous about it either. “Thanks, Nina. No problem.”
“Have a good evening.”
Her eyes fall on me again, and I can’t stop the creep of blush that appears on my skin. I look away and stumble to Nate’s side as he pulls me forward.
We’re back to descending the rabbit hole, which is what I decided I’m going to call this tunnel of spiraling neon that leads to the center of the nightclub.
“Hey, Lauren?”
The curious hum in his tone has me smiling. “Yes, Nate?”
“What’s going through your mind?”
When we reach the open area, I’m more brazen with my gawking, and it’s only because people openly stare right back. So why not make myself at home? I take it all in, dragging my eyes across the room, making sure I have a lot to work with when I go to write my notes.
It’s more crowded tonight, and the music isn’t the synthetic beats like before. The bass is more intense, but it only masks the harsh rap lyrics giving the club an edgier feel. Something more sinister, but I like it. The music is more encompassing, the bass hugging my body with its vibrations, which makes the space feel liberating. It’s so loud that this time I can only hear music, and not the groans of others that I know must be sounding off in the crowded booths.
I notice go-go dancers, both men and women, on small stages in corners I didn’t see the other night. Their bodies splattered with neon paint over their lingerie or barely there briefs that glow against a black light set above them.
I ignore the woman going down on a man in a booth to my left, and try not to pay attention to the two men giving one woman some serious care to her breasts and other lady parts.
I’m hot all over again as I continue to embrace the world around me. I’m more desensitized to the sights, but at the same time, still can’t fathom a place like this exists. It’s hedonism at its peak. I’m not sure if I’m in awe, or scared of it.
“Lauren, I asked you a question.”
I pull back my unexpected climbing arousal while still trying to manage my natural inclination for embarrassment. “I’m thinking … my article is going to be amazing.”
He laughs, and that’s when I dislike the music a little bit. I want to be able to hear his rewarding timber.
He yanks me forward, and I practically fall into him. He catches me. “Oh yeah? There’s one thing I should clarify, though.”
“What’s that?” I ask, my ears perking up, eager for any information he’s willing to impart.
He nods, pulling me to a bar room off the main area I just now noticed. We walk through a curved entryway separating the spaced from dining area to swanky dive bar.
This place is so much larger than I thought. Hidden alcoves hold different venues and secrets. In this room, a long bar curves in an oval in the center lined with leather-backed stools.
Nate places me on a seat, leans over me, and something has changed in his demeanor in a nanosecond. His mouth is still curved upward in that playful way when he laughs, but his eyes glint seriously. He releases me to place two of his long fingers at the base of my neck, calling my body to attention. He drags them up the nape, my gulp evident when his fingers skim over the sensitive skin until he’s tilting my head up by the tip of my chin. My breathing is erratic, but I’ve never been so focused.
“You’re not in control here, Lauren. I think sometimes you forget that.”
I shake my head. “I don’t forget. Control is not something that I want.” He tilts his head, and I can’t stop my mouth. Maybe I’m embarrassed about my confession, because I wasn’t aware I felt this way until the words left my lips. “Sometimes, I just like to see what you’ll let me get away with.”
His lips crash into mine and it’s so unexpected. His hand at my chin curves over my jaw. Our mouths clash, but soon his tongue is tangling around mine, and I release the tiniest of whimpers. He tastes like man, mint, and sin. It’s a mix of refreshing and stingingly sweet.
I’ve never had a relationship like this. No boundaries. No rules. No strings or a hint at more. This is physical. There are moments when I have a hard time wrapping my head around it, yet it’s not something I want to fight.
When he pulls away, I’m out of breath.
“You want a drink?” he asks.
I nod, still in a daze. Nathan Sanders can kiss me anytime. His mouth is unforgiving and possessive. I feel claimed, controlled, and I’m totally okay with this.
“Long island?” He smirks.
I nod again, rolling my eyes while releasing a breath. It’s obvious how Nate gets a kick out of my inexperience.
As I run my hand through my hair, I drag my vision across the bar and see an older man on the other side sitting alone. He’s looking at his drink, but he must sense me staring because he looks up and flashes me a smirk and a wink that makes my stomach flip.
I play with a wavy lock of my hair, turning away, wondering why I feel so weird about a strangers attention. Eye contact seems like such a dangerous weapon here.
“Senator Mills,” Nate says as he hands me my beverage.
My eyes go wide. “Did you just say senator?”
He nods, sipping his drink, and dare I say, there’s a comical smugness to his look.
“Try not to look so stunned. This place prides itself on being discreet. All types of people come here. Politicians, cops, judges, celebrities, the mob, drug dealers, the wealthy, and whoever else can afford to come here and acquire a referral or an invite. It’s exclusive, but you know that. Not anyone can walk in or get in. The people who come here pride themselves on the secrecy and the exclusivity of this place. It’s part of the fun. Other than the fact they can act out their fantasies without worry.”
He takes a seat on the barstool across from me, scooting closer as he places his drink on the bar. I take a long pull from my drink, examining his stubble and sly smirk. He looks almost giddy imparting this information to me.
I want to make a lame joke that it was easy for me to get into Fahrenheit, but I don’t think that’ll get me anywhere with him. It’ll only mean I’ll have to acknowledge that I’m his plaything, and I haven’t come to terms with that yet, regardless of my interest.
“Ya know, I really wish you’d let me write some of these details down.”
He shakes his head while I take another sip. “It’s easy to think that everything goes here, but they’re watching. There’s a checks and balance system that goes unseen until you break a rule. You don’t know it, but a lot of the people hanging around are security. Ex-military, so I hear. Again, this place has one rule, and that’s outsiders don’t get to know the gritty details. You promised to keep those details secret. Like, where this place is, and who comes here. Regardless, what would someone say if he or she saw you scribbling notes while you’re here? They’d investigate, and my membership would get revoked. I’ll have you know, I quite like it here.”
There’s that s
ense of humor again. “I suppose.” I set my half-drank beverage on the bar, and scoot closer. “And I’m sure you do. What’s not to love?” I shift my body, placing his knee between both of mine.
His eyes fall to my legs. Possibly noticing the fact my dress is riding high on my thighs. His wicked smile says yes.
“Tell me, Nate. Not to get too personal, because I know how you hate that, but bear with me for research purposes, yeah?” I pause, leaning in close, placing my hand on his knee between my legs. My heart thumps, as if knowing how out of character it is, but I like it and he doesn’t stop me.
Maybe I understand this place more than I realize. I feel like I can be someone else. His eyes are still on the bare skin of my thighs, or on my hand resting on his leg. It’s hard to tell. There’s a lot going on.
“How long have you been a member here? Did you get a referral?”
He turns to the bar, lifting his drink to his lips, and gulps the rest of what I can assume is whiskey before turning back to me with a fresh sense of determination. He leans forward, as if to challenge me.
With his eyes pinned on mine, he places one of his hands over my hand that’s on his leg and grabs for my free hand, then places it on his other thigh. I freeze, maybe even tremble at the shift in gears.
“For someone who says she doesn’t want to be in control, you sure are forward.”
Both of his hands force my hands to drag farther up his thighs, and I feel nothing but pure muscle under the material of his pants. It’s hard for me to breathe now. I try to focus on the use of my diaphragm, attempting to form the rise and fall effect that would elicit breaths, but I struggle. I want to reply with something witty or clever, but I don’t have a grasp on words.
“I got invited here a couple times by a friend who was a member, a mentor of mine, actually. She was … welcoming. That eventually led to a formal invitation, which came with a price tag. All that happened a couple years ago.”
I smirk. “I bet she was welcoming.”
He closes the distance between us, catching me off guard. He brushes his lips featherlight and teasingly against mine. “She didn’t want anything serious, and it was refreshing to find that in a woman. It was a professional type of interaction, kind of like this one. I don’t like complicated, and I’m shit at long term. They aren’t things I want, and they’re things I avoid.”
I nip at his bottom lip.
His snake-like smile is back. “If you keep that up, I’m going to make sure you see who’s in control here.”
“I hope you do.”
“Is that permission?”
“It’s for research.”
“Of course,” he replies, the corner of his glorious mouth and right eyebrow lifting together. “You play waif-like-flower, but you’re not, you know that?”
My brows pull together, challenging him. “No. These are assumptions people like to make. I’m not a flower, and I’m not waif-like. Just because I’m not like the women who walk the streets of L.A., or prance around in heels daily, does not make me frail or naive. It’s these stupid assumptions that make me mad.”
“Are you angry, Lauren?” he chides.
“I am,” I growl. “I’m a controlled and contained person, too much so. Just because I’m not what the status quo wants on the surface, people think they know me.”
“I know you’re not a flower.”
“Good.”
“Are you exhausted with it?”
“What?” I ask, perplexed.
His hands over mine force them up farther, close to his hard-on that’s looking difficult to hide. My mouth waters.
“Control. Are you exhausted with it?” he asks.
“I am,” I exhale, wondering where those words come from. I guess I am exhausted with the strenuous control I have to manage with my life and job. Everything I know requires me to overthink and overanalyze.
“Do you want me to tell you what to do, and how to do it, and when to do it?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I can’t fathom how I’m admitting it. It’s a guilty confession. “I don’t want to think when I’m near you. I barely can anyway.”
“Are you scared?” he asks.
“Yes,” I confess.
“You don’t need to be.”
My heart leaps into my throat. Among the frigid air that he likes to exude, he’s still taking care of me. I can’t tell if that’s him being compassionate with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing, or Nate isn’t exactly Mr. Ice Man.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. That’s when I realize I’m gripping his muscular thighs, and I’m soaking between my legs.
“Perfect timing,” he hums.
I peel my body from him, trying to get control over my breathing and my rapid heart rate. I rub at my cheeks. I’m hot everywhere. I need to get a grip. Nathan Sanders has a way of getting under my skin.
What am I getting myself into, and who am I? What’s happening to me when I’m in Nate’s presence?
Another thrill rolls through my body as I stretch out my palms and fingers, wondering how I’m supposed to hold on while on this ride.
“Are you ready?” he asks, dragging me out of my thoughts.
I scoot off the barstool, smoothing out my dress. “Ready for what?”
“Lesson Two.”
I smile. “Y-yes, I think I am.”
He grabs for my hand again, and tugs me in the direction of the other neon tunnel, this one bluer compared to the purple entrance.
When we reach the opening, I notice there’s no one around, and the volume of the music has faded. It’s more secluded and hidden, and definitely more forbidden.
Though the ceiling is lined with that familiar neon tubing, I’m more distracted by the amount of doors that line either side of the hallway.
“Rooms,” I say, more to myself than to Nate.
“Yes.” He waves a hand as if to present the space to me. “Each room is different. Twelve in all.”
“Different tastes?” I ask, remembering his words from the other night.
He nods. His free hand nonchalantly points at a few. “Like you might expect, there’s a room for bondage. Some are for people who like to watch others. Two way mirrors, and such.”
I nod, as if I have an idea what he’s talking about. I’m mesmerized, taking thousands of mental notes. He’s so focused. The description is almost as intriguing as the interest that sparks in his eyes.
“Some of the rooms are simpler. Sometimes, all someone might need is a bed and a closed door. Though the club allows you to do pretty much any indecent act you want, they’d prefer you to keep the sex to these room. Some of these rooms are also used for orgies and group activities. Most rooms are equipped with the basics, or you can make special requests.”
I try not to let my head spin. I squint, looking into his round, concentrated eyes. “Basics? Special requests?”
“Let me show you,” he hums. “Are you getting enough for your article?” It flings me back to the realization that this is a business transaction as much as it is a sexual safari.
“Yes, definitely,” I reply breathily. “So, you need to reserve one of these rooms?”
He starts his journey down this fetish tunnel with me in tow. “Yeah. It’s required. Last-minute reservations are hard to come by. This is a busy place. Sex doesn’t really have a prime time. It’s more of an all-the-time thing.”
I blink rapidly, stunned.
“We’re in room eight.”
“What’s in room eight?”
“Why would I ruin the surprise?”
Adrenaline pumps in my veins, and desire tugs low in my belly.
This is happening, isn’t it?
“Of course. So, you reserve one of these rooms, and they give you a key, or what?”
“Pretty much.”
We walk up to a door, and sure enough, a blue tube of neon shapes the number eight on the metal monstrosity. I wonder why the entrance to a sex lair has to look so intimidating.
> I’m holding my breath as he enters four numbers on a keypad above the doorknob. He pushes the door open, and waves me inside.
I’ve preferred to use Nate as my protector and barrier breaker, so the fact he wants me to walk in first feels like the most daunting thing thus far.
His smirk challenges me to move forward, and that’s what lights the fire under my ass to keep moving.
I’ve got this.
When I walk inside, the room is shadowy and dark. It has dimmed white inlay lighting along the molding of the ceiling, giving the room a warmer feel. I’m also happy to see there’s no neon, but instead, earthy colors. The walls to the room are a dark navy, and it reminds me of Nate’s business card he gave me days ago.
I walk farther inside, peering around the room. It’s simple, which I find curious. There’s a large four-poster bed, wooden and ornate, the sheets are a dark maroon, and dare I say it looks cozy with the five large white pillows that compliment it at the headboard.
The only peculiar thing is the long, red leather sofa that faces the bed, sitting in the middle of the room, and the large oval metal ring that’s bolted to the headboard of the bed. There’s something old world about the room, which is contradictory to the edgy, modern feel of the outside. I wouldn’t necessarily call it classy, but instead maybe a sexy, cozy, medieval smoking den. I still feel the most comfortable in this room since coming to Fahrenheit.
The door shuts behind me, and the clicking of the lock has me turning around, trying to anticipate what comes next.
“Any questions?” Nate asks.
With the door shut and just us, I examine him fully. “Tons,” I reply.
“Maybe we should cover some of your questions first.”
I’m aware of that tension at the base of my spine again, and this time it’s amplified by the throb that I can’t say I enjoy. I’m needy and tense, but overall enthralled with this guy and this place.
“How does this work, Nate? I hate to use you as an example, but what do you do in here? Do you meet woman on the streets and bring them here? Or do you meet interested ones already inside the club?”