Virtuous(24)

I pull up to the curb in front of her building and kill the engine. Before she can tell me not to bother, I’m out of the car and going around to help her from the low-slung vehicle. She takes hold of the hand I offer, and I give a pull. Maybe I pull a little too hard on purpose so she’ll tumble into my arms, so I have no choice but to catch her, to bring her body in tight against mine.

“That was graceful,” she mutters against my chest, drawing a low rumble of laughter from me that belies my immediate reaction to the feel of her in my arms.

“I might’ve pulled a little harder than necessary.”

“Now the truth comes out.”

“Sorry.” I reluctantly release her, but she surprises me once again when she doesn’t immediately let go of my coat.

“I had a really nice time tonight. Thank you.”

I look down at her looking up at me, and the desire to kiss her is primal. But I don’t act on the urge. I exercise more self-control than I ever would’ve suspected I possess and take hold of her hand to walk her up the stairs to the door. “I had a really nice time, too. Thanks for giving me a chance.”

“Thanks for sitting through The Sound of Music.”

“It wasn’t as torturous as I remembered.”

She smiles again, and I feel like I’ve won something priceless because I made her smile. “I’d better go in before Fluff blows a gasket.”

Now that she mentions it, I can hear the little beast howling. “We can’t have that. Sleep well, Natalie.”

“You, too.”

Not likely, I think as I wait for her to use her key and step inside the vestibule. “Good night.”

“Night.” The door clicks shut behind her, and I have to tell myself to move, to go down the stairs to my car when every fiber of my being wants to be inside that building with her. Leaving her feels wrong, as if I’ve left something essential behind. Astounded by the way she has tipped my entire existence so precariously out of balance in the scope of one day, I pull away from the curb and head back uptown.

With my body alive with unspent desire and frustration and other emotions that defy easy definition, I know there’s no way I’ll sleep. Rather than go home, I head for the Park and East 65th building that houses the Quantum offices, among other things. It’s the other things I’m interested in tonight.

I take the ramp to the underground parking garage and place my hand on the palm scanner. The metal doors slide open, and I drive into the garage and park between Hayden’s black Porsche 911 and Jasper’s silver Audi A-8. I also notice Marlowe’s sleek white Bentley and Kristian’s gaudy red Lamborghini Aventador. I hate that car, but he loves it, so I keep my opinion to myself.

The whole gang is here tonight, and I’m eager for some time with my closest friends and business partners. We came up together in Hollywood. Hayden is a director, Jasper a cinematographer, Kristian one of the top producers in the business, Marlowe and myself the token actors who have starred together often enough that the paparazzi love to speculate on our personal relationship. Despite the drooling lust of the Hollywood press, since a brief romantic relationship ended years ago, there’s been nothing but close friendship between us. She’s like a fourth sister to me—the one who doesn’t report directly to my parents.

Thanks to the extreme secrecy and security in effect at Quantum, no one knows much of anything about the five of us or our sexual “predilections.” Beside the elevator, I place my palm on yet another scanner, and the doors open for me. Inside, I’m faced with a decision—go upstairs to the offices or downstairs to the playground, as we call it. I’m too wound up to concentrate on work, and I’m way too wound up for the playground, but I know I’ll find my friends there at this hour on a Saturday night, so down I go.

The doors open into what might be mistaken, at first glance, for a nightclub. It is that, but it’s so much more, too. While music thumps a low and sexy beat through the sound system, Jasper stands over a naked woman strapped to a St. Andrew’s cross. Flogger in hand, he speaks directly into her ear.

Dressed in leather from breasts to thighs, Marlowe is berating her naked sub for some infraction that will require stiff punishment. The man, president of one of the biggest banks on Wall Street, weeps from the pain of Marlowe’s stilettos cutting into his back. She’s a harsh Dominatrix with a line of subs waiting for a chance to experience her brand of punishment.

At the bar, I drop onto a stool, and Gabriel, the bartender who is also our head of security and club manager, puts a glass of my favorite Scottish single malt in front of me. “Thanks, Gabe.”