Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)

Charlie

“All done?” Emerson is towering over me from behind as I fill out the hundredth page of boring as hell paperwork.

“Was having to rewrite my name on each page of this packet really necessary?” I joke. When I glance up at him with a smile, he glares down at me, looking mostly unamused.

“Unfortunately, yes. Now, gather your things. I can drive you over to the club, give you a tour, and introduce you to everyone.”

My spine straightens. Everyone? Club? I sort of thought this was going to be a one-location sort of job. I mean, I knew about the club being built, but I didn’t really expect to be going there. And meeting people—kinky people. My palms begin to sweat immediately, and I glance down at my outfit.

Now I know that when dressing for a new administrative job, you should really be wearing the world’s most appropriate outfit ever, but for some reason, when choosing my garments this morning, I was out of sorts. I mean, it’s not like I put on a see-through blouse and black bra by accident, but I was still so fixated on my first encounter in this office that I sort of went for something a little more…risqué than normal.

I wanted to…I don’t know, impress him. No, impress isn’t the right word.

Turn him on? Ick, no.

Please him. That’s it. I wanted to wear an outfit that didn’t just fit me but him too.

Not sure how I feel about that, but it is what it is.

“Now?” I ask.

“Yes, now. Come on. I’ll drive.”

He turns on his heels, grabbing his blue jacket and throwing it over his large frame. I follow him through his house toward the garage. While he walks, I can’t help but stare at his broad shoulders that fit so well in that tight cotton shirt. It’s light gray with a subtle damask design.

My gaze drifts downward and I notice the way he fills out those deep gray slacks, tight around his butt and thick thighs. I can see a resemblance in his and Beau’s build. Beau is big too, but I’ve never seen him fill out a pair of pants like this before.

Straight to hell, Charlie. Straight to hell.

When we reach the garage, he opens the door and ushers me in. It’s a nice garage, big enough to fit four cars, two wide and two deep, but he only has one parked in here. It’s black and expensive-looking. The car beeps to signal it’s unlocked as the garage opens, and I cringe when I realize he’s about to see my car.

He takes a moment to acknowledge my beat-up Subaru sedan with duct tape on the rearview mirror. His eyes linger for a moment on the embarrassing patch job.

“I’m not a bad driver,” I say. “My little sister and I were just playing red light fire drill and I got a little too excited.”

His brow creases as he stares at me curiously. “Red light fire drill?”

“Yeah. It’s where you pull up to a red light and someone yells ‘fire drill’ and everyone has to get out and run around the car and get back into their seat before it turns green. Well, this one time, I got out and ran straight into my mirror. It went flying and I had to crawl under a truck to get it.”

The wrinkle in his forehead deepens. “That sounds a little dangerous.”

“It was, but it was fun.” I wish he’d smile or something, but he’s so broody. Those intense dark green eyes stare at me without an ounce of humor. It makes me instantly uncomfortable.

“Can’t say I’ve ever played,” he replies, opening his driver side door.

“Yeah, well I guess you just play different games.”

His eyes flash in my direction, so I quickly duck into my seat to avoid that haunting gaze. When he climbs in next to me, I swear I catch a hint of a smile painted on his face before it vanishes.

The ride is silent, and I’m a little surprised to find out the location of this new building is actually downtown. It’s not really a new building at all but an old brick warehouse that looks to be under renovation. The windows and doors are covered with brown paper and there are scaffoldings and trucks parked around the exterior. Just above the door is the company logo, sleek in black iron, a circle with the letters, SPC.

Emerson parks the car on the opposite side of the street, away from the dirt and debris of the construction site. As we climb out of the car, I try to pull my skirt down a couple inches and cross my arms over my chest to hide the bra underneath.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

As soon as we shut the doors of the car, a tall blond man in dusty jeans and a tight flannel shirt exits the building and marches in our direction. He has a hard hat on his head and two in his hand. There’s a mildly disgruntled look on his face as he approaches us, but when he lifts his head and locks eyes with me, his expression suddenly changes. A smile stretches across his stubbled cheeks as his blue eyes skate up and down my body. When he turns his head, I spot a blond ponytail hanging under his hat, and when I get closer, I find myself staring at those chiseled cheekbones and full, pink lips. He’s freaking gorgeous.

“Well, hello there,” he chimes with his disarming gaze on me.

Emerson clears his throat, putting the attention back on him. “Drake, this is my new secretary, Charlotte Underwood. Charlotte, this is our general contractor, Drake Nielsen.”

“A new secretary,” Drake says with a sexy, low-tone drawl as he takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. There’s something strange about the way he says secretary, but I’m too hypnotized by his attention to pick out what it is.

“Drake,” Emerson snaps as if he’s scolding the man. Drake doesn’t even flinch, but he does give me a subtle wink. I finally realize, because my brain is moving a little slow with this Greek god staring at me like we’re about to fuck, that Drake thinks I am one of Emerson’s special secretaries.

And you know what? I don’t hate it.

I almost don’t want Emerson to correct him, but of course, he does.

“She’s my actual secretary, Drake. Knock it off.”

There’s a hint of disappointment on the contractor’s face as he lets my hand go. There must be some unwritten rule that people who know of and partake in the kinky stuff can be kinky and flirtatious around each other. But to the rest of us, they have to modify their behavior. Like we’re the muggles and they’re the wizards.

And right now, I hate being a muggle.

“That’s me,” I reply. “A boring secretary.” I twist my lips into a knot and do my best to look downhearted.

Drake’s rough hand runs along the length of my forearm like he’s trying to enchant me. “We’ll have to see about changing that.”

Suddenly, a softer hand latches around my waist and I’m tugged abruptly away from the contractor. “That’s enough. We have work to do.”

There’s laughter from Drake as he follows behind us. “Don’t forget your hats.”

With a scowl on his face, Emerson grabs them out of the man’s hands, keeping his body between mine and Drake’s. The contractor doesn’t follow us inside though. Instead, he begins barking orders at a team of workers on the scaffolding outside.

Emerson mutters in my ear, keeping my body close to his, “Stay away from him. He has no boundaries.”

“What’s his kink?” I ask, and Emerson’s head snaps in my direction.

With his arm still around my waist, he stops me before we reach the door. “You can’t just go around asking people what their kinks are.”

“But you said—”

He’s so close now, hovering over me like a shadow. “I know what I said. I just don’t want you…” His voice trails off.

“You don’t want me what?”

“You’re just my secretary, all right? And you’re my son’s ex, remember? I don’t want you getting involved in this stuff. So don’t ask people their kinks and don’t flirt with the men. Or women,” he adds as an afterthought.

I feel my jaw clench and my shoulders tighten as I glare up at him. “You know I’m twenty-one, right? And remember that big speech you gave about this stuff being so…normal?”

The hand around my waist tightens, and I feel the eyes of other workers on us.

“Will you just listen to me, please? You’re not ready for this, Charlotte.”

In that moment, I hear Beau. I hear him telling me what I can and can’t handle, making decisions for me and taking away my right to think for myself. So I snap, tearing my body away from Emerson’s grasp.

“I will decide what I’m ready for. And my name is Charlie, not Charlotte.” My tone is harsh, biting out each word with anger before I stomp away, tearing open the front door with abandon. He’s quick on my heels, but I don’t dare look at him, even after he approaches me from behind, not touching me this time.

I’m too fired up to really absorb what’s happening around me. There are people working everywhere. They are laying tile and painting the walls while drills and other machines buzz loudly, echoing through the empty space.

“Emerson,” a male voice calls from the other side of the building. We pass through a lobby area with a tall desk and dark black tiles on the floor. Then we enter the main room, which reminds me of a dance club. There’s even a stage at the front, and a team of guys are installing the tallest stripper pole I’ve ever seen.

Along the sides of the room are doors and two hallway entrances, one on either side of the stage. There’s also a second floor with a wraparound balcony that lets those above look down at the club below. I can’t seem to stop looking at everything, trying to imagine what would go on here, what all the rooms are for and what is down those hallways.

“This must be Charlotte,” a male voice says as we approach a slender man in a suit.

He takes my hand and shakes it delicately, keeping his eyes on my face and not my breasts like the god of thunder outside.

“Charlotte, this is my partner, Garrett Porter.”

“Nice to meet you,” I reply.

Unlike Emerson, Garrett has a warm smile, showing his teeth as he grins. With honey brown hair and a clean-shaven face, he has the look of someone who does a lot of business. He looks like a salesman, but with those scrutinizing eyes on me, I get the feeling he’s reading me.

Yep, he’s a salesman, all right.

“Is Maggie around? She has paperwork to give her,” Emerson asks.

“Yep, in the office.”

A broad, soft hand lands at the small of my back, but I’m still a little pissed at him, so I quickly step away, instantly missing the comforting touch.

“I’ll find it,” I mutter darkly. I turn back to find him clenching his jaw as he glares at me, and I’m overcome with a wave of disappointment, but I quickly brush it off.

Leaving him with the other men, I cross the open space, stepping over beams and tools, my shoes echoing with each step. Emerson doesn’t say anything as I head down the hallway that leads toward the back of the building, so I assume I’m going the right way.

But this isn’t just a regular hallway. It’s broad with doors on each side and large windows. As I pass the rooms, I take a peek in, but they are still empty, each about the size of a bedroom, and I find myself gulping down my nerves. Will they really let people just go into those rooms and…

I freeze, peering into one. The walls are painted a deep red and it’s still mostly bare, except for one large chair raised on a dais with gold decorative embellishments framing the red velvet seat. “Is that…” I say to myself, or at least I thought it was to myself.

A warm voice that is definitely not Emerson’s finishes my sentence as he approaches me from behind.

“A throne,” Garrett answers plainly. I quickly spin around and stare at him. He has a sly grin on his face, as if he’s daring me to go inside. I glance down the hall for Emerson and when I notice he hasn’t followed and is still talking to the crew in the main room, I take Garrett up on his dare and step tentatively into the room.

“Why a throne?” I ask. It seems a little weird for a sex club. This isn’t a Renaissance fair.

“Why not?” he replies casually, like it’s obvious.

I swallow again. The chair is ginormous, and the platform it sits on has cushioned edges and plenty of space for…movement. I feel Garrett lean closer, his warm breath against my ear as he whispers, “Try it.”

“Me? No. I’m not really a ‘sit in a throne’ type of girl.”

“How can you know if you’ve never tried it?”

I pause, looking back at him. He’s challenging me, and I can’t quite tell if I really like this guy or sort of hate him. But I never turn down a challenge.

“Go ahead,” he continues. His hand is soft against my back as he presses me toward the chair.

“What is even the point?” I ask, relenting to his nudges. Crossing the room, I climb up the step and touch the golden arms of the broad chair. The first thought in my head is that this throne is for kings, larger-than-life men, monarchs and masters. But as my fingers glide along the ridges and peaks of the decor, I correct my train of thought.

Why can’t I sit in it?

Why have I let my own mind be groomed into believing this inferiority?

Turning around, I settle my weight into the seat, and the moment the backs of my thighs hit the crushed red velvet, it feels good. Crossing my legs, I stare down at the room, Garrett leaning against the doorframe watching me with a look of approval on his face.

“How do I look?” I ask. Judging by the way he’s staring at me, I expect another compliment, and he opens his mouth as if to deliver one. But he stops, closing his lips, almost as if he isn’t allowed. Instead, he ambles forward, stopping at the platform and circling around me.

“Now imagine how it would feel to have someone kneeling at your feet. Worshiping you, bowing to your presence.”

I try to imagine it, but it feels so wrong. I can’t seem to shake this idea that a man belongs here and I belong at his feet. Fucking patriarchy.

“Well, go ahead,” I say with a wry smile as he steps in front of me. Let’s see how he likes to be challenged.

He lets out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he faces me and drops to his knees on the velvet cushions with his eyes on my face. As he lowers his gaze, I watch him bend his head downward and bow down to me, his lips near my black stilettos.

There is no chemistry between us, but there is still a warm buzz of arousal coursing down my spine at the sensation. This big, powerful man is bowing to me, and it is intoxicating. I let myself imagine someone else in his place, someone I shouldn’t think about.

As Garrett lifts up, he touches my leg, sliding his fingers up the side of my calf, and I can’t seem to breathe at all. This feels forbidden, and not the good kind. Almost as if I’m…cheating?

“Now imagine what someone could do from this position,” he says quietly. The raspy tone of his voice feels like it’s echoing through my bones. And when I look down at him, I imagine another pair of eyes looking back.

His attention moves downward to the apex of my crossed legs. My mouth goes dry, and I have the undeniable urge to leave.

“What are you doing?” a voice thunders from the doorway, and I jump about three feet in the air. Emerson is glaring at us as I erupt from the chair. His arms are crossed, his fists clenched, and those wolf-like eyes are trained on me with so much vitriol, I feel like I’m going to cry.

“Emerson,” I stammer, waltzing across the room and trying to remain as casual as I can. I’m not interested in Garrett. I mean, he’s gorgeous, but I just met him and I don’t even know him…and why am I defending myself? I didn’t do anything wrong.

“Your assistant was curious,” Garrett replies as if the room isn’t drenched in tension. “This room was my idea, you know,” he adds.

“Naturally,” Emerson replies through clenched teeth. Then his gaze lands on me and I swallow, trying not to shrink in his presence.

“The window can be adjusted for viewers or privacy, and the stockade will go off to the right.”

“The stockade?” I ask, my mind reeling as I try to picture it. As my mind settles on the wooden plank with three holes and a lock, my cheeks flush hot. “Oh.”

Garrett chuckles. The smile that plays on his lips is wicked, and there’s a mischievous gleam in his eye.

It makes me wonder—what’s his kink?

Does everyone really have one? Like an astrological sign, aligned with their personality and built into their identity. A secret, dirty astrological sign.

I feel Emerson’s hot gaze on my face, and when neither of us move toward the door, Garrett excuses himself, leaving me alone with my fuming boss. What is his deal?

Garrett’s footsteps disappear down the hall, and Emerson strikes, slamming the door and cornering me against the crimson red wall. “I thought I told you I don’t want you involved with this stuff.”

“Then, why did you bring me? Why did you even hire me?” I ask, forcing my voice to hide the shake. He’s towering over me, and I am momentarily overwhelmed with his proximity. Those hard pecs in my face, that intoxicating cologne, the deep rumble of his voice.

“At the moment, I’m not exactly sure.”

The cold, harsh expression on his face makes me want to crumble to my knees. I’m not even sure what I did wrong, but I’m tired of feeling scolded.

“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I say in a quivering whisper, but when I try to escape from this place he has me cornered, his warm grasp on my arm stops me.

“No,” he barks.

“No?” He can’t tell me I can’t quit. Not when everything I do seems to infuriate him.

His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath before a softer expression settles on his face.

“No, you can’t quit. But when we’re at the club, I don’t want you leaving my side or talking to anyone other than me, understand?”

“That’s not fair!”

“I’m not saying this as your boss, Charlotte.”

The argument dies on my lips as I stare up at him.

“Then, what…”

“You’re my son’s…friend, and it’s my job to protect you. No one will hurt you here, but I don’t feel comfortable throwing you into the lion’s den on your first day. Understand?”

My body temperature cools about a hundred degrees. Here I am thinking about Emerson’s hot pecs and big hands while he sees me as a kid, as one of his son’s friends. I feel like an idiot.

Why couldn’t Beau’s dad be ugly?

“Let’s go see Maggie,” Emerson says, letting go of my arm and turning his back to me. I’m frozen in place for a moment, and when he gets to the door, he waits for me to follow. Once I reach his side, his hand returns to that comforting place at the small of my back. I hate myself for how much I love that, but I can’t stand the idea of him being angry at me. He nudges me gently out the door and down the hall. This time, I just keep my eyes forward instead of letting them trail into the various open rooms we pass on the way to the office.