“I can help with that,” he growled against my neck, his arms encircling my waist from behind. “You get changed, let’s be ready to leave in an hour. Is that enough time?”
“More than enough,” I promised, though I knew I would be rushing to do my hair and put on darker makeup. I wanted to look knock-out hot on his arm tonight.
After an hour and fifteen— not too far off the mark— I stepped into the suite’s living room. Neil was distractedly flipping through channels on the television. When he stood up, my throat went dry. His black suit was exquisitely tailored, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and back. Beneath the single-button jacket, he wore a white shirt with an open collar, no tie. His trousers were crisply pressed and broke over the tips of his black, square-toed shoes. His hair was carelessly mussed, and all I could think was how much I wanted to touch it, to ruffle it a bit more, possibly against a pillow while I was riding him.
“You look amazing,” he said, his voice low and deep. “I knew you would.”
The dress stayed surprisingly close to my body, considering how floaty chiffon is. The beading at the bottom helped hold it down, and the petals of the skirt moved, revealing a flash of my pale thigh as I walked.
“Okay, maybe you can pick out clothes for me all the time,” I said with a weary sigh. “You do have good taste.”
“I own two fashion magazines,” he reminded me.
“Oh, then I bow to your superior knowledge.” I rolled my eyes. “I only have a degree in fashion journalism.”
After crossing the room toward me, Neil reached out, sliding his hands over my shoulders and down my arms. “In my professional opinion, you should always wear the least amount of clothing possible.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I leaned up for a kiss, then he helped me with my coat and donned his.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom was waiting at the curb in front of the hotel, and he opened the door for me. “When in Rome,” he explained.
“At this point in the trip, I feel like Cinderella, so I don’t mind if you play the footman,” I quipped, getting into the car carefully to avoid over-exposure. “As long as you don’t turn into a mouse later.”
“Oh, the very last thing you can expect from me tonight is to be timid.” He closed the door behind him, gave the address to the driver, and leaned back in his seat. “But I need to know, is there anything that’s entirely off the menu?”
“Nothing public,” I answered automatically. I could see myself being into a lot of different stuff, sexually, but exhibitionism was off the list. “I can still safeword, right?”
“Absolutely.” His hand on my knee slid back to my thigh, under my skirt, and squeezed.
The club was located in the basement of a historic building near the site of the Bastille, a nice touch for a dungeon, in my opinion. We entered the sumptuous foyer by sliding a blank red card through a reader outside the door. Neil had given the same card to the driver to swipe at the gated courtyard entrance.
“This is some seriously Eyes Wide Shut shit,” I whispered giddily, looking around at the red brocade walls. To one side of the stylishly decorated room, with its red and black furnishings and white marble floor, were two black-framed glass doors with a wrought-iron black gate closed over them. On the other side was an elevator with another card reader.
“The owner of the club also owns the building. I believe the apartments upstairs are used to house foreign diplomats,” Neil said, sliding his card and hitting the elevator button.
“He lives dangerously, then, huh? If an American politician owned a secret sex dungeon, it would be found out before the ink dried on the check he bought it with.” I stayed close to Neil’s side as we stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us.
He put an arm around my waist and drew me close. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’re here to relax, have some fun and get turned on. If more happens, then more happens. But don’t feel you need to fulfill any expectations on my part.”
The elevator doors opened, and we stepped into another foyer, decorated similarly to the upstairs, but with lower lighting and a reception desk and coat check. Neil helped me with my coat and checked it with his; the coat check guy scoped me out, discretely, and I smirked to myself. I knew I looked awesome.
At the reception desk, a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with shorn hair and metallic black eye shadow greeted us with professional warmth. She said something to Neil, and he pulled out the red card again. She passed it over a scanner. As the computer screen faced away from us, I assumed they swiped the card for identification. Confirming my guess, Neil said, “Leif Arden, avec un invité.”