Page 44 of Sugar

“And it’s airtight,” he continued, his voice casual even if the pointed look on his face was anything but. “My lawyer is a shark.”

“Easton?” I surmised.

He tapped his nose. “Bingo.”

My interest in the club had nothing to do with a potential story and everything to do with me. With the way it made me feel. With the thoughts I had.

The desires that I pushed to the back of my head.

I didn’t share that, of course.

Especially since I seemed to have the wrong idea about what a kink club entailed. Despite what he’d said about paddles, there was nothing overtly obscene around us.

“Is this just, like, a bar with a fetish twist?” I asked.

“Out here, yes. This is a… neutral zone. Everyone is free to be who they are, but without taking things to a level that the other members didn’t consent to witnessing. If there is more they want to delve into, there are a variety of back rooms they can use.”

My gaze drifted back to the hallway as I wondered what Easton’s meeting truly entailed. Acidity churned in my stomach.

“Hey.”

At Cohen’s firm prompt, I gave him my focus.

“He’s with my brother. Official lawyer shit.”

My cheeks flushed that my irrational jealousy had been so easily spotted. I averted my eyes, and they landed on the folded menus on the table. Well, one was a drink menu. On closer inspection, I saw the other was a calendar of upcoming events. Classes. Kink specific gatherings. Drink tastings.

I pushed it aside to see another paper. Printed on heavy cardstock, it looked like an elegant invitation. Only it wasn’t to a wedding or garden party.

It was for an auction.

“W-what’s…” My question came out as a stammered breath, and I cleared my throat before trying again. “What’s this?”

“Our yearly auction is next weekend.”

I knew he wasn’t talking about one for used restaurant supplies or antiques.

“For a date?” It was all I could muster, thinking of the bachelor auctions I’d seen on TV shows and movies.

At his stretching silence, I looked up to see Cohen watching me intently. “For whatever they want. Expectations are different for everyone, but participation is completely voluntary.”

“Why?” I wasn’t even sure what I was asking.

He lifted a shoulder but kept his eyes locked on me. “Because some people like the idea of feeling like they belong to someone else.”

His words were said so nonchalantly, like he hadn’t reached into my head and plucked them from the deepest recesses of my desires.

He moved on, asking me more about my life and fielding—and occasionally evading—my questions about Golden and Gilded. But as we spoke, my gaze continued to drift to the paper advertising the auction.

“There’s Easton,” Cohen said after a little while.

For whatever reason, I scrambled to restack the menu and calendar on top of the paper like doing so would somehow smother the thoughts going through my head.

As if Easton could somehow read said thoughts.

The intense way his dark eyes pinned me to my chair almost made it seem like he could.

For a wild moment, I wondered if he would give me a tour. If he would want to stay. If he would invite me to stay with him.