The Architect (Nashville Neighborhood 3)

After the paperwork was completed, she looked pleased.

“Your membership’s been approved,” she said, handing back my license. “The new member fee is twenty.”

Clay must have been expecting this because he dropped a credit card on the counter, right next to his ID. She picked up his license and got to work scanning it in.

“The cover for her will be ten,” she continued, “and for you—”

The scan of his license popped up on her screen, and the title ‘Preferred Member’ flashed along the top.

“Oh.” She straightened in pleasant surprise. “So, the total will be just sixty.”

I blinked. Just sixty? I lowered my voice to a whisper so only he’d hear. “How much is it regularly?”

His expression was fixed. “For the guys who are regular members, it’s a hundred a night.”

“Jesus.” That was a lot for one night, not to mention sexist, but also . . . it didn’t surprise me. The strip club I went to years ago with my guy friends had no cover charge for women. Maybe this place wanted to entice as many women as possible like other clubs did.

The woman turned her attention to him. “Do you want to give her the tour, or would you like me to call someone from staff?”

“I can give it to her.”

She nodded and focused on me. “All right, the rules are easy for women. Really, the only one is no phones are allowed. If you get caught using one, you’ll be asked to leave. You’re allowed to go anywhere inside the club, except staff areas, behind the bar, or the restroom that’s opposite the gender you identify as. Also, if anyone makes you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, just let someone on staff know immediately and we’ll take care of it. Staff is all around the club. They’re the ones wearing gold nametags.”

Done with her spiel, the woman swiped Clay’s credit card, tore off the slip, and passed it to him to sign.

“If you’re interested in watching,” she added, “Mistress Theia’s show begins at eleven thirty. Any questions I can answer for you?”

It was clear she was asking me, but my brain was buzzing over what she’d just said. Show? Mistress? I was anxious to go inside. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay. You two have fun.” She slipped her hand under the counter and must have pressed a button, because the door to the club buzzed softly.

Ever since I’d been told about this place, I’d tried to picture what it’d be like. In the movies, sex clubs always seemed either scary industrial, full of metal and leather, or elegant and opulent, with red velvet drapes and flickering candles.

Eros wasn’t like either of those.

At first glance, it was like any regular nightclub. There was a bar along the back wall and a dancefloor in the center, complete with strobing lights and music that was heavy on the bass. There were elevated platforms at the edge of the dance space. One was a cage and the other a pole, but currently both platforms were empty.

It was relatively dark in the large room, and subdued lighting was cast down on the individual tables scattered on the carpeted area.

There weren’t many people out on the dancefloor, but I couldn’t tell if it was because it was too early in the evening, or the cause was the song that was currently playing. It was sexy, but it was also slower. Too slow to make me want to dance.

Several couples and groups of friends sat at the low tables, talking and drinking while watching the handful of people moving to the music on the dancefloor.

My gaze followed theirs, and I did a double-take.

One of the women out dancing lifted her dress clear up to her waist, flashing the crowd with her perfectly bare lower body. When I turned to Clay to see his reaction, he wasn’t surprised. Only a faint smile hinted on his lips.

He had to lean close so I could hear him over the music. “Guys have to be dressed in the common areas on this floor, but not women. Once you’re through the front door, you can take everything off if you want to, Lilith.”

It was suddenly difficult to catch my breath. Obviously, I wasn’t shy, but I’d never been a true exhibitionist before, mainly because I worried getting naked in public would get me in trouble. My gaze went back to the dancefloor and the woman who swayed her hips, teasing the couple closest to her as she showed off her pussy. Was I interested in that?

I didn’t have time to consider it right this second, because there was still a lot to take in.

I found the clientele interesting and unexpected. There was a huge range in ages—people of all shapes and sizes and levels of attractiveness—and the vast majority of them were dressed up like Clay and I were. Fancier skirts, dresses, and suits seemed to be the standard, rather than leather or latex.