It’s not a long drive, and soon we are in a neighborhood that reminds a little bit of Bourbon Street and a little bit of Times Square. On one corner, I see a red door and a small neon sign for À la Lune. The driver lets us out without a word, but when Damien pays him, his eyes stay on our faces for just a bit longer than I’d like. I tell myself it’s nothing. If he’d recognized us—if he cared—he’d have pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. As it is, he drives away.
Damien takes my hand and leads me toward the red door, but stops a few feet away on a section of the sidewalk submerged in shadows. “I meant what I said before, about Paris being a city of romance and wanting to share that with you on our honeymoon. But it also has a libertine side. A bit wild. A bit decadent.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I tease, easing up against him, so close I can feel his erection. He cups my ass and pulls me closer.
“It is,” he says, with more seriousness than I anticipated. “Do you remember what you said back in Malibu the other day? We were eating breakfast.”
I grin, certain I finally see where this is going. “I said it felt very domestic. That I liked that.” I ease closer, then grind my pelvis against his. “What’s the matter? Already feeling shackled by matrimony?”
“Shackled wouldn’t be a problem,” he says, “though I’d prefer it was you and not me. And no. But I don’t ever want us to become … settled.” As he speaks, he steps back so that he can run his finger down my dress. He eases the skirt up, then growls low in his throat when he finds that I’m not wearing underwear.
“I don’t want to be settled, either,” I say huskily.
“Dear god, I love you.” He tightens his hand around my waist and I arch back, letting him explore me, letting his touch excite me. I know that we are outside, but it is dark and this is Damien, and I don’t care. I want this. I want him. And I want the passion to fire so hot between us that it burns away everything else.
“Inside.” His voice is rough. “If I don’t get you inside right now, I swear I’m going to fuck you right here against this wall.”
I’m tempted to see if he means it, but I notice some people walking across the street. I don’t think they’ve seen us, but no sense tempting fate. “All right,” I say. “Let’s see just how decadent Paris can be.”
Chapter 10
As it turns out, it can be pretty damn decadent. The club caters to couples, who can either choose to share partners or not. We are definitely on the “or not” side of the equation, a fact which Damien makes clear to the couple who enter the club at the same time we do.
The hostess greets us in French, then switches seamlessly to English. She explains that she will take us to the dressing rooms where we will put our clothes and belongings in lockers. She makes a particular point to stress that my camera must be locked away, and I am fine with that. I don’t want to take pictures any more than I want someone taking pictures of me.
The club provides robes, sarongs, and towels. We can choose what to wear, or wear nothing at all. She continues to explain the rules, which are basically nonexistent. Anything goes. Anything, anywhere. Except for the hot tub, where actual intercourse isn’t allowed, a statement that drives home that it is allowed anywhere else.
“Are there private rooms?” I ask.
“There are. But you do not have to be concerned about your privacy no matter what you do or where you do it.” She flashes a bright smile, then nods to Damien. “Our members understand discretion.” It is the first time that I realize she knows who we are. And that Damien has been here before.
I glance sideways at him, but he only shrugs. If I want answers, I’m going to have to wait, because we are already on the move and we are following our hostess to the dressing room, women on the left of the plush joint sitting area, men on the right.
She smiles, nods, then leaves.
“I was wondering how you found this place,” I say. “But I guess a member would know where it is.”
“Renewed member,” he says, not at all perturbed by the green fire of jealousy that has crept into my voice. “It’s been years since I’ve been here, but I called yesterday and reinstated my membership.”
“Oh.” I tell myself I’m not going to ask, but then I completely ignore my own sound advice. “Who did you come with?”
“Carmela,” he says, referring to the bitch of an Italian supermodel he dated many years ago.
“Oh.” I swallow. “And about that couples thing. Did you, um, share?”
“I did,” he says. He takes two long steps to end up right in front of me. Gently, he cups my chin, then kisses me so sweetly it almost makes me cry. “Why wouldn’t I? She wasn’t mine.”
His words soothe me more than I want to admit. “I don’t like thinking that there were other women before me,” I admit, though I know it is a foolish thought because Damien Stark is about the furthest thing from a monk on the planet.
“There weren’t,” he says. “There may have been women—they may have even shared my bed—but there was no one before you.”
I nod, still feeling foolish, but also incredibly happy. I wipe a tear away with the edge of my thumb.
He tells me to go change—“not naked; I don’t intend to share even the sight of you”—and to meet him back in this sitting room.
I do, returning in a sarong, and more than happy to find him with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bulge at his crotch making it more than evident that he is ready for whatever delights are on the agenda.
He leads me through a space with couches and chairs and people in various states of undress, all touching and stroking and teasing. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here, but I can’t stop looking. Damien sees me, and pulls me back into an alcove, one of many in this room, and clearly set back for this very purpose. There is, in fact, a small curtain that can be pulled across the opening, turning it into a small but private space, almost like a little dressing room.
“Have you ever watched other people make love?” Damien asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. Some porn, but that’s different.”
“It is,” he says. He stands behind me, so that we are in the shadows and I am looking out over the room. Hands stroking. Lips meeting. I don’t know why, but watching these strangers makes my own temperature rise.