The Bet (Winslow Brothers 1)

Back through the front of the bar, we turn down a dark hallway where only a bright exit sign illuminates the space at the end.

My heart picks up its pace, a lifetime of survival instincts screaming at me that going down a dark hallway with a stranger isn’t a great idea, but for all the doubts I have, my legs keep moving.

I’m too invested. Plus, people here obviously know Jude, and they seem to like him. I know nothing is absolute, but I feel like the risk factor is at least a modicum lower than it could be.

I squeeze tight on to his hand as we approach the door, and he bangs on it one time with a loud, unmistakable blow.

It takes a few seconds, but when it swings open, a big, muscled guy and a velvet curtain block the view of what lies beyond.

“Jude,” the bouncer-type guy says, his smile blindingly white and authentic.

“Do you know everyone in New York?” I ask sarcastically into Jude’s ear.

He turns back toward me, whispering cheekily, “Not everyone. I didn’t know you.”

“Hey, Jimmy,” Jude says then, greeting the bouncer with yet another fist bump. “Okay if we go inside?”

“Sure thing,” the man replies, pulling the curtain back for us.

And I have to admit, for as secretive as I knew this place was going to be, I’m still surprised when I get a look at what it actually is.

It’s dark and pulsing and immediately ripe with sexiness. It’s the kind of place that makes your stomach heavy and your knees weak, just by walking inside.

Couples litter the deep-cushioned sofas along the walls, their bodies intertwined with each other like ivy vines. They don’t know of anyone else’s existence but themselves and their partners, and it’s the same for each and every set of them.

Okay. This is the super-sexy secret part of this club, and by God, I don’t know if I’m fully prepared for it.

My heart knocks in my chest, thumping like a speeding train on an old set of tracks. Jude takes my hand in his, his grip sound and steadying, and pulls me toward the other side of the room where neon-trimmed windows feature scantily clad women dancing to the beat of the pulsing music.

I watch them closely, trying to tap into the tiny, minute part of myself that enjoys the unexpected. It’s not huge, but it does exist. I mean, I’m not a total prude.

I tighten my fingers around Jude’s hand reflexively when the woman in the center window looks directly at me and licks her lips, and he responds by pulling me closer to him with a gentle tug, and places a comforting arm around my hip as we continue to walk.

I don’t know what it is about him that makes me feel like he’s my ground wire, but for all I know, in this situation, it could just be that he’s familiar.

He walks us to the bar, squeezing my hip before releasing it, and orders us a couple of drinks. And the bartender smiles at him knowingly, as though this is far from his first time in this place, too.

I spin around to take in the room again, completely unable to quench my curiosity.

Jude’s lips skim the side of my neck as he leans in to whisper in my ear. “You okay?”

I swallow hard as I nod. I am. Really. I’m nervous as hell, but I have to admit, I’m also kind of enjoying it. This is so far out of my normal, I almost feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

“Good.”

Unexpectedly, he kisses the skin directly under my ear, grazing the flesh with the very tip of his tongue. I shiver, and my abdomen pulsates with the heaviness of arousal.

I swear, I’m close enough to coming without any actual stimulation again that I almost throw myself on the ground.

What is it about him that sends me right over the cliff so quickly?

“Come on,” he prompts, lifting two drinks that he’s procured for us in the air. “Let’s go sit down.”

I follow him dutifully, unwilling to stay here alone with all that’s going on around us, and slide into a deep, plush, velvet-covered sofa in the corner. Jude follows, setting our drinks on the table in front of us, and leans back to hook his arm over the back of the couch, somewhat around my shoulders.

I shiver again, and this time, he notices.

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head. The truth is, I’m anything but. I’m on fucking fire.

Jude

Four hours we spent together tonight in the bowels of one of New York’s sexiest underground clubs, and I’m so ready for sexual contact I could snap. Touching, teasing, taunting, we’ve essentially been challenging each other to a duel—who can drive the other to distraction the most without making contact.

Aside from the small flick of my tongue against her neck, I’ve done nothing but suggest the power of our arousal, and she’s done the same.