“You should call it a night,” he said.

I ignored the staring creepers and frowned. “So what are you? A bouncer?”

“I work closely with the owner.” He tapped his cellphone. As if on cue, another message appeared. “We know the type of people who shouldn’t be here. We don’t need an incident.”

“You don’t think I can handle it?”

“No.”

“You’ve known me for ten minutes. What makes you think I’m not into this stuff?”

The question didn’t need to be answered, but Anthony’s stare was a harsh chastisement, as if I should be ashamed that I defended myself.

“The women who belong here know better than to argue with me.”

He stood. I stayed glued to my seat. The bartender instantly appeared and Anthony directed him to call for the valet.

“Have a good night, Morgan.”

He left without another word. I didn’t cover my flushed cheeks. They warmed on their own, a result of the either utter mortification, indignant rage, or a blood-boiling, belly twisting curiosity.

My hands trembled. Getting rejected was one thing, but Anthony’s appraisal was worse than anything my ex ever said. Hell, at least Ryan gave me the you’re a nice girl, but we just aren’t clicking speech.

But who was he to tell me where I did and didn’t belong? He didn’t know anything about me besides how alone I looked waiting for my friends who prioritized real life over a night out.

The women here knew better than to argue with him.

What did that even mean? What happened if they did argue with him?

The possibilities wrapped me in an endless shiver that hit every delicate area from my head to my toes. With my legs crossed, a delicious pressure pulsed between my thighs. Somehow my decency eroded away in a single night.

The sexy romance books were mainstream enough now—I knew exactly what Anthony was and the game he played. He was a walking, talking, tab-paying muscled specimen of testosterone, authority, and kink.

Since my previous sex life consisted of a movie at the cheap theater, a grope in the car, and unremarkable sex in a dorm room while Ryan’s roommate was at the library, Anthony was probably right. I didn’t belong here.

The sketchy guy in the corner of the club wandered my way. He fiddled with the pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt. I decided to wait for my car outside. A chirp from the bar stopped me. Anthony’s forgotten phone buzzed. An incoming text from someone named Simone.

Done yet?

Simone. That sounded like a woman who could call him away. Someone who probably gave him the same shivers that slammed me. But the message didn’t make sense. He didn’t like women arguing with him. The social ramifications of such a demand would send every sociology major I knew through the roof. But, if it were true, why would he let a woman text him in such a demanding manner?

I eyed the stairs. It was a brand new iPhone, and it didn’t feel right letting it get lost or stolen. Besides, I wasn’t above playing Good Samaritan to prove that some random stranger couldn’t measure my entire personality from a single drink at the bar.

I made it within arm’s length of the stairs before the bouncer blocked the path.

He wore a sharp, expensive suit and stood tall—not nearly as big as Anthony, but intimidating enough with a bald head and goatee. An earpiece tucked within his ear. Tight security for a single staircase. My insides shriveled under his stare.

“Going somewhere, miss?”

Now or never. I sucked in a breath and showed him the phone.

“Anthony left this.”

The bouncer looked me over. I hoped there weren’t a whole sea of Anthony’s floating around upstairs. I didn’t think to look through the phone to figure out his last name. Ignoring his advice was risky enough, but I wasn’t about to violate his privacy.

This was a stupid idea. I offered the phone to the bouncer, but he moved aside.

“Go on up,” he said.

Well, hell. I didn’t expect it to work. The stairs rose steep, and the glistening LEDs silhouetted me as I went up, shining like built-in sign proclaiming my perversion. I gripped the railing and took each step, waiting for it to collapse under me. The glance over the bar proved my fear wasn’t paranoia.

Every eye was on me.

Great. My heels were unsteady enough. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling on my face in front of all those people. I never used to mind crowds, but, lately, I liked to hide out in my apartment with my sweats and Netflix. I hoped no one recognized me.

My newest life goal—not to draw any unnecessary attention to myself.

I shifted the curtain aside. An empty hallway separated the noise of the bar from the happenings upstairs. I smoothed my dress and attempted to push my shoulders back, but my imagination weighted the air and pushed the narrow hall against me.

Fancy oil paintings hung on the walls. Most of the artwork were nudes, of course. I wondered who commissioned the work. Google Image Searches got pretty raunchy, but these paintings depicted either some seriously complicated Twister games or sexual positions beyond anything Ryan and I ever attempted.

I had taken six steps and I already regretted my decision.

The hall ended with a dark, ornate door. I considered knocking, except this place probably had an entirely different definition for solicitation. I also considered turning around and high-tailing it back to safety. I clutched at the phone. It was a club, not a prison. What was the worst that could happen?

A lot of things, but I wasn’t about to imagine it.

The VIPs lounge seemed to be an entirely different club, not cheap and trendy like the LED lit bar downstairs. Leather furniture and a grand fireplace organized part of the room into a comfortable sitting area. The cherry wood bar and walls framed an elegant, old-school smoking room. Classy, masculine, and far more yacht club than I expected. Still most yacht clubs didn’t employ a topless bartender.

Two women in lace bodysuits lounged across the lap of rather rotund man on the couch. In the corner, a masked man stood shackled, his ankle chained to a convenient hook in the wall. He stayed still, completely naked, and apparently excited about his predicament. A party raged beyond a second hallway, pressing further into the weirdness than I intended to wander.

I edged forward until a harsh crack echoed over the floor—the sound of leather connecting with flesh. A woman screamed. The party applauded.

And I thought ordering a peachtini made my Friday night wild. Duchess gave Stanley Kubrick and Tom Cruise a run for their money.

The bartender’s cocked an eyebrow at my presence, as if she weren’t the one serving drinks in a corset that didn’t conceal her breasts. Leaving the phone with her was the second best idea I had—getting the hell out of the freak show ranked first. His voice caught me before I took a single step.

“You don’t follow orders.”

My breath escaped with an oof, as if someone wrung out my lungs like a wet dishcloth.

Anthony’s gaze burned directly through me, an insulted look of immediate disapproval. I accidentally backed away, realizing all too late he pinned me against the wall with only a few words. I wore heels, but they did nothing.

Anthony’s shadow cast over me, his body obscuring my view of the club. Not only was he tall, every inch of him sculpted with muscle. The kind of strength bred from a deliberate attempt to intimidate. He didn’t need it. He possessed just as much strength in his stare, in the roughness of his voice, and in the ripples of displeasure.

I majorly fucked up.

He crossed his arms. His biceps tightened, even under the suit.

And then the inappropriate images flitted into my mind. Those powerful arms pressed against either side of me. His body trapping me between his solid chest and the wall. It was a good thought—a stirring, heavy thought—but one I didn’t need to have in a modern-day sex dungeon, no matter how many fish tanks or leather couches were stacked in the hall.