Page 9 of Wicked Dares
The sight takes my breath away.
An impressive décor spills out before me, mingling in an array of soft moonlight and black leather.
A low wall of glass runs along the edge of the terrace, making the city feel close enough to touch. From the skyline rising around us to the cascade of buildings below, everything glows beneath the night.
In the lounge, the couches are arranged in intimate clusters around a bar at the far end, staffed by a single bartender. And then there’s a hot tub. Right across from the bar.
I’ve only ever seen a setup like this on TV or in magazines. It hardly looks real, and I experience a moment of temporary displacement. Like I stepped into someone else’s life for the night instead of my own.
“Come. Let’s get a better look,” Mr. Wicked says, tugging on my hand.
“Sure.”
He leads me onto a polished black stone floor. It’s so glossy I’m almost tempted to kneel down and touch it.
He signals to the bartender, who instantly grabs two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of expensive-looking wine. The label is French. He pours us each a drink and has them ready to hand to us by the time we reach the counter.
It’s only then that Mr. Wicked releases my hand. The absence of his touch leaves behind a strange awareness beneath my skin, but I ignore it.
We take our drinks, and he motions for me to follow him over to the balcony.
I do.
Cold night air brushes over my bare shoulders, carrying the distant hum of the traffic far below us. We stop at the rails and gaze at the sprawling city around us. It glitters endlessly, alive in a way that charges the air with electric energy.
We’re not as high as the skyscrapers but high enough that it feels like we’re in the heavens, gazing down.
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter.
“I thought you might think so.” There’s a smile in his voice.
I glance at him and take a sip of my wine. It’s fruity and delicious and completely unfamiliar. It has a decadence about it, the sort people with old money drink without thinking twice about the price.
I’ve never tasted wine like this before. That’s saying something considering Aunt Bess always thought of herself as a real connoisseur.
“You like that, too?” He lifts his chin toward my glass.
“Yes. It tastes amazing. What is it?”
“Romanée-Conti,” he says.
My insides still. That explains a lot. No wonder I’ve never had it. The wine costs well over ten grand a bottle. And as much as Aunt Bess loves her wine, she wouldn’t have parted with that kind of money for a single bottle.
I take another sip as he watches, his gaze falling to my lips.
Once again, I’m hyperaware of him—his presence, his lingering stare, and the invisible thing drawing me to him.
Since I’m here now, I may as well loosen up and do something normal. Like actually talk to him.
“Quite a good setup you have here,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too mechanical. I probably do, but at least I’m talking and my voice isn’t shaking.
His lips spread into a smooth grin. “It’s one of my lucky breaks. I never intended to own a club. Wasn’t even on my mind.”
“How did you come up with the idea?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was just sitting under a tree drinking coffee when it came to me?”
I smirk. “Really? That’s it?”
