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It’s homier, but still opulent. The Anderssens’ mistress, Grace, offers us drinks and electronic cigarettes or cigars. The real stuff isn’t allowed in this room, and none of us really smoke anyway. Instead, we each take a glass of sweet wine and order whatever drink we want. I request a whisky.

Kathleen is too enthralled by the environment to properly hear Grace. By the time she does comprehend what’s being asked, all she can do is stare wide-eyed.

“She’ll have an Old Fashioned,” I say.

I don’t notice that the Anderssens are glancing at us after I ordered for Kathleen. They’re on a different couch from us, leaving enough room for Grace to join them when she returns with the drinks. I thank her, and she winks at me.

Always working, these girls are.

Grace may belong to the Anderssens tonight, but they’re not here every night, and it’s my understanding that these professionals take on other clients on a casual basis. If friends happen to share the same woman, well… I don’t think people mention that. For obvious reasons.

I’m grateful that I never employed the services of this lovely Grace. Too close to the Anderssens for comfort.

“Relax, friends,” Kennedy says, leaning back and imploring her mistress to sit on the edge of her lap. Grace looks comfortable settling in there, her fingers brushing Lara’s long hair with careful attention. What a pair. “All drinks are on us.” Kennedy smiles. “Anything else is your own discretion.”

I know what she means. She’s looking at me, after all.

“Ever been here before, Mathison?”

Kathleen looks at me. I know she won’t give a rat’s two-timing ass if I say yes. Most dominants in our circles have been here at least once. Just because Katie hasn’t doesn’t mean she looks down on it.

“A few times.” I sip my drink, although Kennedy continues to stare at me, as if she knows something I don’t. “Those times were a bit busier than tonight.”

“It’s traditionally a slow night, we’re afraid. That means more attention for us.” Lara smiles at Kathleen, who is still staring at the pillows and trying to remember where the fuck she is. “That reminds me, sweet, where are your friends?”

Grace puts a hand on Lara’s shoulder – just who taught who that move? “They should be along shortly. They were helping with something downstairs.”

Before any of us say anything, the door opens and admits two more feminine beauties dressed to impress their clients.

I frown. Not because I don’t like them, but because there’s the one I slept with the last time I was here. Me and who knows how many in my social circles. We don’t think about that, however. A woman’s gotta work.

“Evening, everyone! Heard the party was in here.” The tall stranger with strawberry blond hair drapes herself across the back of Kathleen and mine’s couch, her experienced eyelashes batting at the both of us. Behind her, the other girl slinks along, refilling glasses and taking her perch in an empty chair between the couches. “To whom do we owe these pleasures?”

“These are Ira Mathison and Kathleen Allen,” Lara introduces, her wineglass half empty in her hand. “We closed a big deal with them today and are here to celebrate.”

“Ooh, celebrations!” The woman whose breath is going down the back of my neck is smiling. A bit too much. Too flirtatious. “Hey, Chelsea, pour these festive people some more drinks. They’re celebrating.”

I exchange a look with the pale and blonde Chelsea. She flashes me a familiar smile. Yes, she remembers me. She’s probably here because we had a good time and wants more of this. And my money. I tipped her well, didn’t I?

“Call me June,” says the chatty one. She extends her hand to both Kathleen and me. She has a firm handshake. “When I heard the lovely Anderssens had invited some of their friends up here, I knew I had to stop by and say hello.” That’s code for “I have no other work tonight, so let me try to score here.”

More drinks are poured. The Anderssens are comfortably laughing. Kathleen shuffles toward me on the couch, and I don’t think she realizes it. Either way, her hip is now touching mine, and I can smell the perfume in her hair.

Fuck me, I’m too relaxed for my own good. Can you blame me? This room is full of pretty women. Not just Kathleen, but June, Grace, and Chelsea are all handpicked beauties. Even Lara Anderssen is stunning in a body-hugging red dress she kept hidden beneath a black jacket during business today. She’s a master of knowing how to dress up and down an outfit. Even her spouse, the almost as masc-as-me Kennedy has gone out of her way to put on a face full of intense makeup and slip into stilettoes that give her a few extra needed inches. Like I said, she’s almost as masc as me. If there’s one thing Kennedy gives no fucks about, it’s labels. Except for the pansexual label, and only because she discovered some people get offended when you call yourself “omnisexual at an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Six beautiful women. Six sources of frustration, because they are all so very sexual creatures. Especially Kathleen, who is comfortably next to me, even if she doesn’t realize it.

You don’t understand how much I want to wrap an arm around her and relax into this couch with our drinks. I want to laugh with her, talk about absolutely nothing, and get relaxed enough on alcohol to start romantically touching one another in this hazy atmosphere.

I want to do that, but I don’t know how.

See, Kathleen and I don’t have an established public relationship. Lots of people have guessed there’s something going on between us – like the Anderssens – but that doesn’t mean we’re ready to be seen as a romantic pair. As far as the Anderssens are concerned, Kathleen and I hook up sometimes. There’s nothing else going on outside of the bedroom.

For all I know, Kathleen thinks the same way. So, the last thing I want to do is make her uncomfortable by throwing my arm around her or touching her knee in an intimate way. Point really stands when I look at how out of her element she is. I guess it has to do with all the women, and as far as I can tell, my dear Katie tends to gravitate to smaller groups or one-on-ones. Tack on how badly she doesn’t want people knowing about our dynamic, and there you go.

We’re joined by one last person tonight. Someone I wasn’t really expecting, until Monique Grant helps herself into the lounge wearing a little black dress and ruby jewels in her hair. I had heard through the grapevine that she still spends most of her weekends here to oversee her business. Which is funny, because a woman as submissive as her isn’t someone you’d peg as a businesswoman. I glance at Kathleen and wonder if she would ever be like that.

Before Monique can spare some words for us, she catches the look I give Kathleen. I don’t like the tiny smile on her face. Shit. Shit, shit.