Read Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3 Online
Authors: Madeline Parr
Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3 (11 page)
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B
ody Heat is
the hottest club nobody talks about. Not with the ironclad confidentiality agreement you sign before you step inside. It’s the close-kept secret of the rich and famous, and they want to keep it that way.
I’m not particularly rich and not at all famous. I’m something even better: family. The club’s owner, Nova Bennett, is my big bad sister. So, while other potential members fill out extensive applications, undergo rigorous background checks and medical reviews, and hand over their little black credit cards, I was simply handed the keys to the kingdom.
I sit at the bar, sip my bourbon, and survey the room. This isn’t the cross section of society you run into at the grocery store or the DMV. Not even close. The majority of those in attendance tonight are good looking enough to be movie stars. A few of them probably are.
Nova’s not a madam, if you’re wondering. The club doesn’t peddle flesh. She provides a safe place for like-minded people to meet and discuss their interests. Those interests just happen to involve sex. Sometimes she helps match people if their interests are especially unique. Otherwise, she simply provides a place for the rich, famous, and discreet to meet others who are rich, famous, and discreet.
There’s no danger of publicity or being hounded by the tabloids. Not in a club that boasts a spectacular view of the city skyline through windows treated with military-grade privacy film. Not with a security team that rivals that of a small government. And not with Champagne.
Champagne, the restaurant on the ground level of the building, started as a front for the sex club but developed into a celebrated and profitable establishment. I was the executive chef until a recent career change. It remains one of my favorite places to eat, and I’m not alone. It’s a favorite of all sorts of politicians, cops, and other straight-laced members of the community who couldn’t imagine the debauchery going on in the penthouse even if they tried.
I’m not nervous about being exposed because there’s no way anyone could accidentally stumble into the club. Nova owns the entire building, and its security measures are best described as drastic. The only way clients can access the club is by swiping their security fobs near a nondescript door at the back of Champagne. It opens to reveal a bank of three elevators that travel only from the ground floor to the penthouse and back. Members use a key card to trigger the elevator. When they reach the penthouse, security verifies identities and membership status before allowing them inside.
That’s when the fun starts.
No sex happens on club property, unless you book one of the gallery rooms ahead of time. This is a place to meet and make arrangements. I’m anxious to make a few of my own tonight.
Five years is a long time to go without sex, even if you have a good reason. And believe me, I have a damn good reason. Saying my divorce was rough could qualify as the understatement of the century. Now that my ex is somewhere . . . secure, I guess you could say, I’m ready to get back out there. But I’d pull my fingernails out one by one before I’d enter the dating pool again.
And that’s the problem.
I’m lonely. I miss being with a man. I miss the chest hair, the borrowed oversized T-shirts perfect for lounging around in, and that clean warm smell of the masculine man. I miss the scratch of stubble between my thighs and the feel of a hard cock in my hand, dancing at my touch. I need a man. I just don’t want one around all the time, making demands, getting jealous, and needing his ego constantly stroked.
I surreptitiously scan the room for potential partners. Unfortunately, I see a lot of fake tans, waxed eyebrows, and smiles bleached shockingly white. I’ve always liked my men a little rough around the edges. I prefer to be the prettier one. Still, it’s turning out to be more fun than I imagined. I thought I’d feel like a wounded antelope. The straggler at the rear of the pack who draws the attention of the pride. But I feel like the lioness. It’s fortunate; I couldn’t turn off my need for control even if I wanted to.
I’m scanning the room when I hear him place an order at the bar. His voice is deep and gravelly. It sounds like sex on a stick, and when he orders a Bruichladdich 21 neat, I get goose bumps.
Maybe have a look at him before you decide to take him home
, I think. I drain my drink and swivel on my deep brown leather stool toward the bartender to catch a glimpse, but I’m interrupted by an attractive couple who materialize in front of me. She’s petite and curvy and rocking the perfect red lipstick. He’s tall and blond and has cheekbones carved from granite. They both wear friendly smiles.
“We’re heading out for the night and we’d love someone to come home and play with us,” he says. “You look like you know how to have a good time.” He looks at his girlfriend, smiles, and takes her hand.
She nods, wide-eyed, and adds: “He loves eating pussy and he’s a god with his tongue. I’m no slouch myself. You won’t be disappointed.” There is not a hint of nervousness or self-consciousness in their invitation, and I know for certain it’s not their first rodeo. But it is my first time saddling up this bronco.
“I’m sure it would be amazing,” I say, “but I’m just dipping my toes in the water—not ready to jump in the deep end yet.”
“We totally understand,” the young woman says. She places a hand on his arm.
“We’re here pretty often if you’re ever in the mood,” he adds. They wish me a good night and drift off.
I turn to the stool next to me to collect my handbag, ready to go in search of my raspy-voiced, Scotch-swilling mystery man.
“Can I replenish that drink for you?” I look up. The man in front of me is tall, dark, handsome, and giving off smarminess like radiation from a mushroom cloud. He takes his time examining me from tip to tail and then back again, like he’s assessing a prized mare. I know in an instant he’s not what I’m looking for.
“Thanks, but I’m a one-and-done kind of woman.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already striding away from the bar area. I scan the room but don’t see anyone with a lowball glass of amber liquid. Plus, for some crazy reason, I’m convinced I’ll know him when I see him. The club is busier than I expected, but the crowd seems happy and fun. Still, it’s making it difficult to zero in on my target. And the layout isn’t making things easier.
The club is divided into several different areas: the bar, the gallery, and the lounge. The bar is an upscale watering hole for the wealthy, while the lounge is a luxurious quiet space for more intimate conversations. To get to the lounge you have to pass through the gallery. I’ve visited Nova here before when the club is closed, but I’ve never been here when the gallery is open. It’s a thing to behold.
Think of a hallway in an aquarium. But instead of windows looking into an underwater wonderland, the wall-sized windows in the gallery open to private performance rooms where people do every naughty act they can think of to themselves and each other. There are three on each side of the hallway, and they have to be reserved ahead of time. If you’re horny and shy, there is a toggle in each room that instantly frosts the window. They are always full during business hours. Always.
I pass the gallery on my way to the coat check, and the moans and groans from the hallway send a delicious shiver up my spine. I have no intention of leaving this early or empty handed, but I need to check for messages, and cell phones are on strict lock down inside the club. One quick detour and I’ll head for the gallery and find my mark.
He finds me first.
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a homebody who loves spending time with my family (both human and canine). I’m happiest when curled up with a great book, but also enjoy Mexican food, men in uniform, and binge watching Netflix. I love hearing from readers!
