She sighs into the phone. "See you tomorrow night."

We hang up and I sit in the Black Room, Smith staring at me from across the table. "She took it well?"

"I think so," I say, lifting my glass of Scotch to my lips and taking a swallow. "She seemed a little disappointed that you won't be fucking her tomorrow night."

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Maybe we should give her what she wants?"

"I was thinking the same thing."

We laugh after that. Marcella Walcott might never be the same after tomorrow night. She has no idea how well we play this game.

But she's about to figure it out.

The next day is filled with planning for the parties coming up, a mundane meeting with the Club staff, and of course, going over my plans with Chella tonight in my head. By the time seven o'clock comes, I'm ready to ditch the party and get down to the real point of the evening.

That is... until I see her in that silver dress.

"Jesus Christ," I say, mouth open, eyes on the low-cut slit down the front of her floor-length sheer silver gown, because almost half of each breast is exposed.

It looks better on her than I could've ever imagined.

"It came with tape," she says, looking down with a frown. "Two-sided tape so that I don't have a wardrobe malfunction tonight at your stuffy party."

I smile at her characterization of tonight's party. "Don't worry, Miss Walcott. This party is not as stuffy as the last one."

"I really hope not, Bric. Because this dress is... movie-premiere-red-carpet party. Not we-want-your-money-for-medical-research party." She bends over to stare between her legs. "Is my pussy showing through this lace?"

I chuckle again. I cannot remember having so much fun giving a girl a dress before. "Quin is right about you."

"What's he say?" She crinkles her nose, but it doesn't last. Her eyes are smiling as she envisions that conversation in her head.

"He says you're funny."

"Funny?" Her nose crinkle is back. "Is that all? Not fuckable? I mean, good God, I've given him the best three weeks of my life and all he has to say about me is that I'm funny?"

I lean down and kiss her mouth, my hand sliding behind her neck to keep her close. "And fuckable," I whisper into our kiss. "One day soon, maybe by the time next Monday comes along, we'll both fuck you together at the same time."

She draws in a deep breath. "I can't wait."

Me either. "Are you ready?" I ask. "Do you have your purse?"

She grabs the evening bag off the side table in the foyer. "Oh, this old thing?" She laughs. "I do have to give you guys credit. When you decide to give a girl a purse, you give a girl a purse. I know how much this Jimmy Choo clutch costs, Mr. Bricman. I shop at Saks as well."

"Then you know it's not good enough for you, Miss Walcott." I open the foyer closet and take out a black wool shawl coat and drape it around her shoulders. "Not nearly good enough. And I will do better next time."

"Oh, man." She laughs. "I could get used to this."

"That's the idea," I say. "Ready?" I place my hand into the small of her back.

She smiles up at me. "Mmmm-hmm," she says softly. "I think so."

But underneath all her jokes is real apprehension. I'd be worried about her if she wasn't apprehensive. Especially when I know what Smith and I have planned for later.

When we get downstairs she places her hand over her heart as we walk to my car. "No driver tonight?" She laughs. "I know what we'll be doing in the car then."

"It's a special night," I say, opening the door to my silver Mercedes AMG GT S. "You'll never forget anything about this night, Miss Walcott."

She looks up at me and says, "I'm getting nervous."

But the only hint I give her is, "You should be. Now get in, Chella. We're way past fashionably late already. The party started an hour ago and the performance is going to start in twenty minutes."

I close her up in the car and walk around to get in on my side.

"What performance? I thought this was a party?"

"It is," I say, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb. The Mountain Ballet Center is only about a mile away, so I go slow and enjoy this time with her. "But I'm a platinum-level supporter of the ballet, as are all Turning Point members. So every Christmas they put on a special show for us. Which is why I have to drive. It's very hush-hush."

"Oh. My God. What is happening right now?"

"Just relax." I laugh. "Smith and I aren't going to fuck you at the ballet."

"Smith is going to be there?"

I don't want to hear the excitement in her voice when she asks that question, but it's there. "No, I told you, he's not part of our date."

"So... Club members are going to be there?"

"Yes, it's all for Club members. But don't worry. Same rules apply. No one will ever find out what happens tonight."

"There's no public sex, is there?"

"Chella." I shoot her a look. "We share you between us, not the public. And not the Club, either. You won't be naked, I promise."

"OK," she says, breathing out some relief. "Will I be embarrassed? I mean, will there will cocks flying?"

"You kill me, woman. I can't promise there won't be. I haven't seen the show yet."

"OK," she says again. "I'm just preparing myself. And it's only fair. If there's tits, there should be plenty of penises to balance it out."

I can only shake my head at her.

A few minutes later we pull into the valet of the Mountain Ballet, hand off the car, and walk up to the entrance. The doorman checks our names off his list and then opens it for us.

Inside there's about a hundred people-all club members and theatre staff. After we check our coats, Chella's eyes are all over the place. Mostly on the dozen or so naked men walking around greeting guests.

"See why I brought you at the last minute?" I lean down to whisper in her ear.

"You're no fun, Bric. We should've been fashionably early for this."

There are an equal number of naked women, and I watch Chella appreciate them as well, wondering if she's ever been with one sexually.

The lights dim on the lobby, signaling that it's time to take our seats, so I lead Chella up a flight of stairs and let her into my box in the front balconies.

The show is notable for its erotic theme, which was choreographed specifically for Turning Point Club members, and not for its classical beauty. But it is provocative. And it is the perfect way to get her ready for what's coming.

It's a short show, only about an hour with no intermission. And once it's over, I lead her out to the lobby for a few minutes of polite chatting about donations and upcoming schedules, as we wait on the valet to get my car.

Several couples come up to be introduced, but I glare at them until they back away, leaving us alone.

I don't want to introduce Chella to Club members. She's not a member. She's ours.

And I only take my eyes off her for a second to glance down at my buzzing phone-a text from Smith, asking for an update-when Jordan Wells suddenly appears in front of Chella, holding his hand out and introducing himself.

I sigh loud enough to get Jordan's attention, but he ignores me as he takes Chella's hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

"What are you doing?" I growl.

"Miss Walcott and I are old acquaintances," Jordan says.

"No." Chella laughs, looking at me uncomfortably.

"Yes, you don't remember me? Our parents were friends when we were little. Back before you went away. You came to my eighth birthday party and then-"

"Oh, shit," Chella says. She looks at me-deer in the headlights.

"Sorry, Jordan," I say, pushing him away with a palm to the chest. He is forced to take one step back because my push means business. But he's a big guy too. Just as tall as I am. Just as cut too. So it's only a single step back. "We've got to be going."

I don't wait for his answer, just grab Chella's hand as I lead her over to the coat check.

"I cannot believe a family friend was here with me at this show. My father-"

"It's OK, Chella," I say, trying to calm her down. "Jordan knows better than to say anything." I hope. Jordan Wells is new to the Club. He's only been there a few months. "He signed the NDA like everyone else. And he's a lawyer," I add. "A damn good lawyer. He'll keep his mouth shut. Almost all of our members have something to lose if word of this Club and their membership get out."

"I think it's already out, Bric. My friend from work knew it was a sex club."

"She thinks she knows. She doesn't know. And besides, the top exec at every local news station in town is a member. They don't report it, Chella. So don't worry. Just relax and have fun tonight. We're just getting started."

It takes a few more minutes of convincing, but by the time the car arrives, she's more relaxed. Or maybe just more nervous about Smith and me than she is about that Jordan guy.

As she should be.

We drive back to the Club and drop the car off. "Are you hungry?" I ask when I lead her inside. "We can eat first if you'd like?" She looks at the White Room, which is filled with diners. Wednesdays are open to the public, but I see a flash of fear on her face. "We can get room service later, if you'd like."

"Yes," she says, allowing me to lead her through the lobby to the stairs. We walk up to the elevator-Chella's nervous glance over at Smith's bar tells me she's looking for him. "Room service later is perfect."

"Good," I say, punching the call button. When the doors open, I urge her forward. And when they close I press the button for five, not six.

"Aren't we going to my apartment?"

I just smile. "Now why would we do that, Miss Walcott? That's not where I keep my secrets."

Chapter Twenty-Five - Chella.

I know there's nothing to be afraid of. This is Bric. But my stomach is doing all kinds of twists and turns as I watch the elevator count the floors as we ascend.

The doors open with a beep and Bric places his hand on the small of my back, pressing me forward.

I'm surprised to find that the elevator leads directly into the apartment. The ceilings are high. Much higher than mine, one floor above. And the windows on the far side of the expansive living room stretch from floor to ceiling, framing the golden dome of the Capitol building right in the middle pane.

The floors are a checkered pattern of black and white marble and the furniture is sleek, modern, and minimalist. I take a deep breath when I notice Smith off to the left, standing at the bar. He's wearing a tuxedo, like Bric's, and he's holding a glass of champagne out for me.

"You made it," Smith says, striding over as Bric takes off my coat and drapes it over a chair in the foyer.

"I made it," I say, exhaling out the nervousness once I hear Smith's voice. I know him. I know Bric. I know these men. The rules really do have a purpose. If we had tried this even last week, I don't think I could've gone through it. Not because I didn't want to. No. I really want to. But because I'd feel very ashamed letting myself be watched by one man as another one fucked me.

I take the glass and sip, then sip again to make sure my newfound courage doesn't have a chance to fly away.

"You," Smith says, "look stunning in that dress. Did you have a good time tonight?"

"Naked men dancing?" I laugh, looking at Bric. "How could I not?"

Smith and I don't have the witty banter thing down yet, but I feel more comfortable with him now. And even though I did sleep with him last weekend down in the club, that's not why I'm feeling more at ease.

I think I just... like him.

"Are you nervous?" Smith asks, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. Clearly he is not.

"I'm not sure." I look at Bric, who is just as handsome as Smith in that tux. "I'm not sure what to expect."

"Well," Smith says, walking me as he looks me up and down. I turn my head to watch him gaze at the low dip of the dress. My bare back. My ass. And then I have to turn my whole body to keep up with his circle. "Bric and I have come up with something."

"Something?" I ask, looking at Bric, who has been silent. Just watching Smith and I work this out on our own.

Smith waves a hand to the dining room table off to the right. The main rooms, so far, are open concept. So even though the spaces are large, they are open. And the dining room isn't close enough for me to see what he's motioning to.

I walk over, both men follow, and peer down at what's waiting for me.

"You get to choose," Bric says.

There's a whip, a ball gag, a blindfold, and some rope. Just the way Bric likes it. And I begin to breathe a sigh of relief-that this will be somewhat familiar.

"Normally," Smith amends Bric's statement. "Normally he lets you choose, right, Chella?"