Any Way You Want It (Brand Clan #2)(68)

After enjoying a day of sightseeing capped by an early dinner, they’d headed to the Institute of Sex, where Zandra had a memorable evening of role-playing planned for them.

The museum’s nondescript three-story building in London’s East End was off the beaten path, but its obscure location had never hurt business. If anything, it seemed to heighten the museum’s risqué appeal, adding to the allure of the forbidden. Back when Zandra had worked there as a tour guide, herds of tourists had arrived daily to view sexually explicit photographs, illustrations, books, stag films and an eclectic collection of artifacts that included vintage condom tins, tokens from burlesque peep shows and prototype sex machines.

Before leaving Chicago, Zandra had contacted the museum’s owner, who still remembered her fondly and had been pleased to hear from her. After Zandra explained what she wanted—sweetening the unusual request with a generous donation to the museum’s coffers—the woman had graciously granted Zandra and Remy free roam of the building tonight. She’d even provided Zandra with an updated tour guide uniform to wear as part of her role-playing.

Remy was thoroughly enjoying himself—and they hadn’t even gotten to the grand finale yet.

Returning to character as an irresistibly sexy stranger she’d just met, he followed her into a cool, dimly lit room that featured pornographic woodblock prints and brothel guides from eighteenth-century Japan. This, too, was one of the museum’s permanent exhibits that Zandra was already familiar with.

“So,” he drawled, “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

She gave him a coy smile over her shoulder. “How do you know I’m a nice girl?”

“You mentioned earlier that you’re from a small town.” He raised an amused brow. “Aren’t all girls from small towns nice?”

“Only the ones who stay behind,” Zandra quipped.

He gave a low, husky laugh that made her nipples harden.

“As for the other part of your question,” she continued challengingly, “what do you mean by ‘a place like this’?”

Remy grinned, glancing around at the explicit paraphernalia on display throughout the exhibit hall. “I think that’s self-explanatory.”

“Oh, I see. You’re one of those people who thinks this is nothing more than some raunchy sex museum, like you’d find in some red-light district. But you’re wrong. This isn’t a sex museum. It’s a museum of sex. There’s a difference.”

“Really?” His dark eyes glittered with genuine amusement. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Well, for starters, this is one of only a handful of museums in the world that takes an academic approach to sex. Our exhibits aren’t designed to titillate, but to educate.”

“Educate,” Remy repeated thoughtfully as he wandered farther into the hall. She fell in step beside him as they walked the length of the wall, studying a series of handpainted scenes that depicted men with monstrously exaggerated penises in various sexual positions with women.

“The society was really obsessed with genitalia,” Zandra explained.

“Aren’t we all?” Remy mused, giving her a sidelong look that naturally made her think of his obsession-worthy genitals.

Ignoring the hungry throbbing of her *, she continued her educational spiel. “These prints are called shunga, which means ‘spring pictures’ in Japanese. Each shunga was mass produced to be used as masturbatory aids.”

“You don’t say.” Remy had stopped to face her. “So they were basically like porn in those days.”

“Yes. They were considered visually stimulating.”

He looked at one of the prints on the wall, assessing. “Doesn’t do much for me.” His gaze returned to hers. “What about you?”

Zandra gave a husky laugh. “With all due respect to the artists, it takes a bit more than a kinky drawing to turn me on.”

Something hot and wicked flared in Remy’s eyes, and his voice dipped indecently low as he asked, “What turns you on?”

You, Zandra thought without hesitation. The way you look, the way you smell, the way you say my name. The way you f*ck.

She swallowed, watching his hooded gaze follow the path of her tongue as she licked her parched lips.

He’d shifted subtly closer. His nearness, his sheer physicality, always made her acutely aware of her own body. The friction of lace against her tight nipples. The dampness of her panties between her thighs, rubbing against her clit.

“It’s kind of dark in here,” Remy murmured.

“To protect the art from harmful light,” she explained, feeling and sounding breathless. “The room is also temperature-controlled.”

“You’re very good at this,” Remy remarked, and Zandra suspected he was talking about her role-playing. She could definitely say the same of him.

“Good at what?” she asked.

“Your job. You really know your stuff.”

“Thanks. I’m still learning.”

Mischief glimmered in his eyes. “Do you have to be an expert on sex to work at a sex museum?”

“Museum of sex,” she corrected with a chuckle. “And, no, you don’t have to be a sex expert to work here.”

“But it probably doesn’t hurt.”