Unfurl: Chapter 30

I’m wearing white tonight.

I know what Gen and Rafe have told me ad nauseam.

Virginity is an artificial construct.

What I’ll do tonight with Rafe, the way I’ll let him inside my body, is simply one thread in a veritable spider’s web of sexuality.

Even so, I want to wear white. I want Rafe to see me as a blank canvas on which he gets to imprint his mark.

I want to send him to the edge of reason.

We’ve planned the whole thing together. Not what I’ll wear, but how we’ll act. What we’ll do. Who we’ll pretend to be. He suggested taking the reins, as it were, and let’s say I graciously declined his offer.

‘Thank God I’m not a real Dom,’ he said. ‘You’d make a fucking useless sub.’

That made me laugh so hard, but he was right.

‘I like it when you take control in bed,’ I told him. ‘I love it, actually. But if you think I’ve come this far to let a guy tell me what I can do, and when and where I can come, and to claim he owns my body, then you couldn’t be more mistaken. I’ve had enough of being told what I can and can’t do with my body my entire life to ever let someone have that kind of control over me.’

To my surprise, he got this soft, funny look on his face at that. He slid a hand through my hair, and all he said was, ‘That’s my girl.’

I went back to the Ralph Lauren flagship the other day on my lunch break to try that gorgeous long white sheath I’d been lusting after since I saw it, but it was too formal for tonight. Too restrained. If I’m honest, it was too classy.

Instead, I bought a shorter version of the same dress. It has tiny straps and thick enough fabric to allow for no bra, but its hemline is short enough to make me look less like a virgin and more like a hooker.

A very expensive hooker.

Which, funnily enough, is exactly the look I’m going for tonight.

The bar at Alchemy is all shimmering pink onyx and buttery green leather and gorgeous, confident people. This is my third time here, and I can now pick up on the signs that this is no normal bar. That what lies through those heavy double doors is entirely more enticing than the glamorous scene its mirrored panels reflect back at us.

Yes, everyone is behaving well in here, but there’s a thrum of anticipation in the air, of delights expected and assured, and I allow that same thrum to beat in my veins, to flutter across my skin.

Because I share that anticipation.

I sit at the bar alone, in a short and beautifully cut white dress I’m pretty sure Mr Lauren didn’t intend for this purpose. My heels are sky high, my hair loose and straight, my eye makeup far heavier than usual, and my skin buffed and glowing. I’m jewellery-free except for a sculptural silver choker that teases my collarbones.

I sip my martini, because tonight I am most definitely Belle and not Belina, and this version of Belle drinks spirits, not wine. A couple of good-looking men in suits approach, asking if I’d like some company, and I explain that I’m meeting someone. I’m calm and pleasant, but not encouraging.

They smile and shrug and tell me it’s a shame, that they’ll see me next door later, maybe.

And God. It really hits me then that, shortly, I’ll be on the other side of those double doors in an alternate reality where those same guys could have their neatly pressed shirts off, and their dicks out, and the charming manners of out here will give way to behavioural codes I don’t know the first thing about.

I don’t have too much time to reflect, because suddenly Rafe is standing next to me with a suave good evening, and I’m swooning hard. He looks delicious, as always, in a navy suit that’s been tailored to worship every hard line of his body and an open-necked white shirt underneath.

It’s thrilling to see him here, to meet as strangers in a bar when every other time I’ve been here I’ve been pining over him from afar. Wondering if he’ll even remember me after our sessions. Wondering how many other women he’ll screw after he’s finished working the poor little virgin up into a frenzy.

Tonight he’s here for me.

Just for me.

‘Good evening, sir,’ I purr, careful not to sound over-eager, although I’m sure the hearts dancing in my eyes give my game away. Although, from the way his pupils are dilating at the word sir, it seems I’m not the only one with traitorous eyes. The thought makes me happier than I can say.

You see, I can’t give Rafe what most of the women next door can give him. I can’t slither up and down his body like it’s a greased pole and I’m a seasoned dancer, or wow him with my amazing sexual tricks. That’s not me.

Yet.

But what I can do is convincingly provide the mix of innocence and deference his dominant side seems to find so gratifying.

He licks his lips and runs his gaze down over the swell of my breasts and the hemline so short it would show off my thong if my legs weren’t crossed. It travels down my legs to my high, very strappy sandals before flicking up to my face. He’s assessing me, or pretending to, and it sends a thrill over my body.

‘Are you… working this evening?’ he enquires.

I set my drink down on the bar. ‘I am.’

I cock my head prettily and wait.

‘You available?’

I smile. ‘I am.’

He bends over, close to my ear, and I get a hit of that scent I love so much. ‘In that case, I’d be delighted if you’d come next door with me. I’m Rafe.’

‘Belle,’ I say as he straightens up. ‘And why not?’

The satisfaction on his face is endearing, because I’m a sure thing tonight. But, no matter how we’ve agreed this evening should play out, I adore this balance of power. I adore the fact that this version of Rafe is plucking me off a bar stool and offering to pay me for my services, that he’ll treat me like some kind of possession, that he’s offering money in exchange for free rein over my body, and that he’ll demand total submission on my part. He’ll demand I service him.

Because that’s what he’s paying for.

Is it remotely feminist?

No.

Demeaning?

Yes.

Hot as hell?

Also yes.

I uncross my legs, not missing the way Rafe’s eyes flit back to my hemline as I do, and gracefully slide off the chair. He shrugs off his jacket, takes my hand, and strides across the room so forcefully I struggle to keep up.

His hand goes to the heavy chrome door handle separating the bar from the Playroom. ‘You’re mine tonight,’ he says. His eyes pierce mine.

‘Yes sir,’ I say politely. Pleasantly.

Obediently.

He gives a tiny shake of his head, like he’s struggling to hold it together. ‘Good girl.’

He pulls the door open.

The air is thicker in here.

It’s far darker, and the first thing that hits me is the scent of Diptyque Baies mixed with the musky smell of sex. In the foreground, all I see are big leather sofas and low-level tables with their shaded lamps turned down low. Kind of like a night-club, but more opulent, the colours more muted than den-of-sin.

And people.

Bodies.

Bodies moving, writhing, coupling. Some are so subtle, it requires a double take to register what they’re up to. Others are more blatant. Like the couple sixty-nining on the giant ottoman to my right. Yikes.

I quickly avert my eyes to the stage where two practically naked women are twirling around white sheets suspended from the ceiling in a way that defies gravity. The music is sultry. Hypnotic. Rhythmical, which I suppose is important when you’re having sex.

Rafe walks me past a pillar where one guy is enthusiastically going down on another. As he pulls back, I catch a glimpse of a thick, veined dick and avert my eyes again.

Holy crap.

It’s like watching a car crash, only hotter. The convent girl in me is horrified, but I can’t look away. I’ve been taught for so long that sex is wrong, sinful, dirty. That it’s a mortal sin. And here I am, surrounded by sinners having the time of their lives.

If this is hell, it’s a damn sight more fun than they let on at school.

I’ve been hoping for total anonymity on this side of the doors, hoping everyone will be so busy shagging that they won’t notice us. But I should have known that here, in hell, Hades is king.

Heads turn as my companion stalks through the dim space with me in tow. It’s not just his gorgeous looks, surely. It’s that this is his domain. His kingdom. He created this subverted nirvana. These people are his playmates. His playthings, even.

And who wouldn’t want Rafe Charlton to play with them when he looks like this, when those dark eyes of his are already burning with purpose and desire? My heart is breaking for everyone who won’t get to have him tonight, but seeing the energy in the room change as his presence announces itself is a massive turn-on.

Because they all want him.

And he wants me.