Haze(14)

"You heard wrong." I tip my chin in his direction. "I've invited a few employees from our stores. It's a good marketing move. It shows how much we care about the community."

"Is the cute blonde who was racing out of your office the other night one of those employees?” I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. "She's not invited."

He looks past me towards the windows at the expansive view of Manhattan. "I was waiting for the elevator. She practically ran me over to get in it before me. What's her name?"

"Why?" I snap back, too quickly, too tersely.

"Woah." His hands shoot up in mock surrender. "I'm not chasing her. I'm married, remember?"

"How can I forget? You remind me at every chance that I'll never find a woman as perfect as the one you married."

"I've seen the blonde before." His mouth twists into a scowl. "I've tried to figure it out since then. I know her from somewhere."

"She works at the Liore boutique on Fifth Avenue."

"I've never set foot in there." He leans forward in the chair. "I must be mistaking her for someone else. There are a lot of cute blondes in New York."

I swipe my finger across the screen of my tablet, pulling up a series of images of ties from the men's upcoming spring line. He came here to talk business, not to discuss Isla Lane. She may be a beautiful blonde who I'm aching to f*ck, but she's an employee. She's off-limits and though the challenge is tempting, the consequences aren't.

I'm going to find exactly what I want tonight.

For just a few hours I need a woman who is gorgeous, eager, and whose limits line up with mine.

***

"She's nothing like most of the girls who come here. She's different."

That's improbable.

It's also inconsequential.

I came to the club tonight for one purpose. If that purpose comes in the form of a woman that Sage thinks is one-of-a-kind, so be it. I'm not here to cast judgment. No one who sets foot in this club is. We're all here for the same reasons, to f*ck or to be f*cked, to control or to acquiesce.

The only difference between any of us is the thick, glass barrier that separates the seasoned club members from those who are curious. There's also the matter of the confidentiality agreement you sign when you're invited to cross the threshold into the private area of Club Skyn.

Discretion is paramount and, fortunately, legally required.

I rub elbows with many of New York City's elite here. Not one of them wants their predilections to follow them into the world outside these walls. I'm no different.

"You've barely touched your drink, Gabriel." Sage raises her near empty glass to toast. "Here's to you finally jumping back into the fray."

I nod slightly, my hand firmly clutching the glass of scotch I ordered shortly after I arrived. As soon as Caleb had left my office with instructions in hand for the tie collection, I'd hit the gym to spar with Landon Beckett, an old friend. I was restless and wanted to blow off the pent up energy before I showered.

Like Caleb, his life has settled into a pattern of predictability with a woman he's passionate about. I doubt he'd understand my need to be here. I doubt most people in my inner circle would.

I've never cared about that. I've never sought the approval of anyone when it comes to what I do after work, on my own hours. This is my life. These are my needs. This is what I thirst for and tonight I'm here to quench that.

"She's there." Sage's fingers paint an invisible trail along the glass.

I move closer, my eyes honing in on the crowded mass on the dance floor directly in front of us. Some of them know that there are others with a clear and uncensored view of what they're doing. Others, those who are new to Skyn, think that it's exactly as advertised, just another club on the Lower East Side of the city. They're oblivious to the fact that the mirrored wall that runs the length of the dance floor becomes something more three nights a week.

It's on those nights that the large rooms behind the wall come to life with a fully stocked bar, music, and people who all want the same thing. From behind the one way glass we can assess, yearn for, and finally invite someone back to a place where consent is readily given and real names are rarely exchanged.

For those of us who understand the need for the private rooms equipped with all the tools of both pleasure and pain, we're here for one reason and one reason only.

"Where?" I lean closer to Sage hopeful that my voice will rise above the increasing volume of the rhythmic beat of the music that fills the entire club.

She taps her hand against the glass. "That's her. She's wearing a red dress. Her hair is long, it's brown. She's almost as tall as I am."

I scan the dance floor. I spot the woman Sage is pointing to almost immediately. Her dress, a scarlet red, hugs her frame. She's tall, lithe and has the body of a dancer. She's timid, her eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, all the while avoiding anyone.

"She's eager to meet you. I told her about you."

Those details would have been sparse at best. Sage, like anyone with an invitation to this area of the club, values her privacy. She's not going to willingly risk her reputation as the face of one of the country's most successful skin care lines.