“I mean, I could use your help. With them. Just switching out glasses and making sure they’re all topped up while I explain things. I set up a tasting station over there in the corner at the high-top marble table.” I pointed over to a round table set back in a small alcove.
“Oh, yeah, of course, whatever you need,” Isabella said. “I’ll bring them over.”
I watched as she walked away and greeted the two couples who were here for the tasting, guiding them over to the table.
“Obviously, I’m not going to fuck him.”
“Obviously, I’m not going to fuck him.”
“Obviously, I’m not going to fuck him.”
I repeated it like a mantra, mostly to keep my aching dick at bay.
I didn’t need one of my best friend’s sisters to know how badly I’d like to bend her over in that back office.
Or how badly I’d like to trace the fading tan lines I’d spotted on her shoulders.
I thought I had gotten Isabella out of my system this morning in the shower, but being around her at this club was stirring up weird feelings inside me. That’s just what this place did to you.
A place Dominic and his friend Liam had created for sexual exploration and positivity. A place where it was expected that you, as the employee, keep your own turn-ons at bay even as members were in various states of pleasure all around me. At the end of the bar, a couple was making out. In a wide lounge chair angled slightly away from the bar sat another couple, and I saw a flash of upper thigh as the woman leaned forward. An older gentleman sitting between two women was getting a rubdown in a booth.
I grabbed a fresh bar towel and headed over to the table to greet my guests. My demeanor was a stark contrast to my relaxed, flirty self at the bar. Now, in front of the guests, I tried to exude confidence and control. My eyes, however, flicked toward Isabella, locking eyes with her for a split second before acknowledging the guests.
“Mr. and Mrs. DeLorenzo, Mr. and Mrs. Whitfield, welcome to the Prism Society,” I greeted, extending a hand to each of the guests. Their hands were accepted with firm handshakes and nods of acknowledgment.
“Isabella will be assisting me this evening,” I said with a note of finality as if expecting no objections. Izzy squared her shoulders, giving a polite nod to the two couples. The DeLorenzos, prominent figures in the art community, had a reputation for being exacting in their tastes. The Whitfields, though younger, were rising stars in the world of art curation.
As the couples settled around the marble-topped table, I directed my attention to Izzy. “Isabella,” I began, my tone imperious yet not unkind, “please ensure each guest has a clean glass in front of them.”
“Of course.” Isabella swiftly moved to distribute the wineglasses, her movements precise and efficient. I watched her every move, nodding slightly when she was done. “Thank you. Now, the first wine we will be tasting this evening . . .”
I launched into an intricate description of the first wine, discussing its origin, the notes to anticipate, and the correct way to taste it. I felt Isabella’s eyes on me as she observed me work.
At intervals, I would give Izzy commands, some overt and others more subtle. “Isabella, the decanter,” or “A touch more for Mrs. Whitfield, please.” Each time, she responded promptly, and I would show my approval with a small touch of my hand on her lower back. I didn’t know what game we were playing, but I sure as hell loved it.
The evening flowed smoothly, with Izzy and me working seamlessly together. The couples seemed thoroughly engrossed in the experience, hanging on to my every word and frequently engaging Isabella with questions about the wines.
As the tasting concluded, I turned to Isabella, my voice low so only she could hear. “You did well, Isabella,” I murmured, my eyes intense.
Isabella smiled, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered back.
Her wide eyes glancing down in shyness at my feet did something to me. For as strong and confident as the woman before me was, there was something inside her that seemed to be begging for direction. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold onto my control around her.
SIX
ISABELLA
It had been a week and a half since I started working at the Prism Society, and each shift peeled back another layer of the city’s nocturnal charisma. It was a different New York than the one bathed in sunlight, with its own rhythm and secrets—one I was becoming part of in ways I never expected.
However, if there was one skill I had perfected over my years as both a New Yorker and a globe-trotter, it was the uncanny ability to suss out the best hole-in-the-wall eateries. The grungier the façade, the more tantalizing the food.
That’s why I found myself audibly groaning as I picked up the plastic sack, which was emitting a strong garlic smell, off the sidewalk in front of the side door at 3 a.m. After my first few shifts at the Prism Society, I had clocked out and headed home as the last member left. Max had never asked me to stay behind, and he seemed content to close down all by himself.
But as I lay in bed, night after night, still awake at four in the morning, I decided to try something different tonight. I was always starving when I got home and had pent-up energy from hustling around the club all night that I needed to get out of my system. Even busting out my yoga mat at 4:15 this morning hadn’t helped put me to sleep.
So tonight, after a week and a half of leaving as soon as the lights came on, I was mixing it up. There’s no way Max would turn down dinner that smelled this good. I heaped giant scoops of garlic chicken, sauteed vegetables, and rice on paper plates I’d found in the back office. I slipped off my wedges and carried the plates out into the lounge, where I expected to find Max.
As I rounded the corner, the melancholic chords of Something Corporate’s “Konstantine” echoed through the lounge. Max was standing there, clipboard in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, passionately belting out the lyrics with his eyes closed.
