Sinful Empire (Mount Trilogy #3)

My senses shift into high gear as I scan the polished wooden planks of the floor, covered by thick rugs that probably cost more than I make in a year. The muted glow of gaslight sconces adds to the otherworldly feel—at complete odds with the throbbing beat of the dance music.

For the dozenth time, I wish I’d done more research before I showed up for this meeting, but I’ve been so busy, I can barely manage to shovel three bites of food into my mouth for lunch.

It’s worth it, I remind myself. I have a respectable job now. There’s no mud on the bottoms of my shoes to track inside these days.

Even though I know I’m in the right place, my polished designer knock-off pumps itch to beat a path to the door and out to my car . . . except it’s not there, because the overly efficient valet drove it away before the front door even opened.

I swallow back a lump of unease but straighten my shoulders and turn my attention to the doorman, who seems to be waiting for me to compose myself. Apparently, I’m not the only person who’s been overwhelmed at the first sight of this place.

When I meet his hooded stare, he doesn’t speak. I hold out the note that showed up on my desk at Seven Sinners. He takes it from me and glances at the printed text, but still says nothing.

“I’m supposed to meet someone?” I hate that my voice sounds like I’m asking a question rather than making a statement. I shake off the unease and find my assertive tone. “I’m here to meet someone for a business discussion. Can you please direct me to the office?”

The doorman gestures to the opulent staircase before me with the card before offering it back.

My sweaty palms leave smudges on the edges as I snatch it from his grip. I should have known from that fancy cream linen paper that this wouldn’t be like the normal bars and clubs I’ve visited to hawk Seven Sinners Whiskey.

“Thank you.” I give him a nod, and once again, get zero verbal response. This place is bizarre. Time to get in and get out.

Attempting to look unaffected, I stride toward the red-and-gold runner climbing up the stairs.

I’m just here to sell whiskey. All the whiskey.

The treads beneath the soles of my shoes vibrate more with each step I take. As I round the curve of the staircase, I find another masked man waiting for me at the top.

I offer him my invitation and stare over his shoulder at the light spilling out from beneath a set of closed double doors.

There. That has to be the club. See, nothing different about this place after all.

Except there is, and I don’t know if it’s my overactive imagination, but I swear I can smell sex in the air. Images of all the things that could possibly be happening behind those doors assail my brain. I force my attention back to the man for direction.

He jerks his head to the side and starts down a wide gold-and-white striped corridor, away from the doors. He pauses at the corner as though waiting for me to follow him, and I uproot my feet from the floor and stumble forward to catch up with my bag smacking my hip. Instead of leading me farther down the corridor, he steps out of the way to reveal another set of curving stairs and points upward.

Seriously? I thought this was a business meeting, not punishment for missing my date with the gym for the last six months.

My arches cramp in protest as I smooth down my skirt, reset my bag, and climb to the top, but at least it takes my mind off the peculiar feel of this place.

I’m going to have to sell a ton of whiskey to make this trip worth it.

When I hit the next landing, there’s a third man, this one the size of a linebacker, in a matching mask.

Where the hell is everyone else? What kind of club has silent doormen and no tipsy patrons stumbling back and forth to the restroom?

I don’t have time to ask either of those questions before masked man number three reads the words on the card I hold out and leads me down a hallway to what I assume must be the manager’s office. At least, I hope like hell it is.

An ornate door with an antique brass knob awaits at the end, and he pushes it open and gestures for me to enter with a meaty hand.

I pin my most professional smile on my face and take a deep breath, ready to charm whoever awaits me inside into buying more whiskey than they plan.

With a confident stride, I make my way inside.

“Hi! I’m Temperance—” I trail off when I realize the chair behind the desk, dimly lit by a simple banker’s lamp, is empty.

A quick scan of the rest of the dark room reveals no signs of life.

What the hell?

“Okay, then.” I clear my throat, poised to turn around and get the hell out of this place, when a light flickering to life distracts me.

But it’s not a light in the office where I’ve been shown, but a light in the room next door. A room that I can apparently view through what appears to be a two-way mirror.

Am I really seeing this?

And by this, I mean a monstrous iron-and-wood four-poster bed draped with black silk sheets . . . and restraints.

A bedroom. A kinky bedroom.

Holy hell.

I stumble back a step, reaching for the doorknob, but my gaze fixes on the black mask of the woman entering the bedroom and the heavily muscled shirtless man with his palm on the small of her back.

This isn’t just any trendy secret club interested in adding top-notch whiskey to their shelves.

It’s a sex club.

I should be horrified. Running screaming in the opposite direction and out to my car. But instead, I’m rooted to the floor.

I have a front-row seat to one of my dirtiest fantasies. A fantasy I finally got up the nerve to try to fulfill a few months ago, because Lord knows I don’t have time to have a relationship, but my search for a non-sketchy sex club in New Orleans fell flat. Google sure as hell didn’t have this one on the map, and neither did any of the forums or blog posts I read.

A real underground sex club.

A tingle of excitement, like I’ve just discovered a secret key to another world, shoots through me as the man shuts the door to their room and slowly circles the woman before pushing her to her knees with one dominant hand on each shoulder.

He has the look of a conqueror, complete with dark leather pants and tribal ink marking his chest and upper arms, inspecting his war prize. It’s hot as hell.

The rational part of my brain says I should look away, not invade their private scene, but I glance quickly at the door I entered through. No one is bursting in to tell me it’s some kind of mistake that I was led here.

The woman, dressed in red lingerie, keeps her eyes downcast, but I’m not nearly as disciplined. I can’t take my eyes off her companion as his ass flexes against the leathers.

When he stops in front of her, one of his wide hands darts out and buries itself in her honey-blond hair, gripping her at the base of her neck, forcing her attention to his face.

They are completely and utterly absorbed with each other, and neither of them spares even a moment for the wall that serves as my voyeuristic porthole. Do they know? They must.

“You wanted my attention down there, little girl. You’ve got it all now.”