Groaning, I lean back against the wall. "I gave myself away that easily, did I?"
"Not yet, you haven't," he says, amusement glittering in his eyes. "What are your thoughts so far?"
"Of the Gilded Room?"
He inclines his head in a yes.
I look out over the mingling guests. People are shifting into separate corridors and rooms, and on the stage, one of the women is now-oh. Wow.
She's going down on the man tied to the chair. His head is thrown back in pleasure as hers moves in a practiced rhythm.
"I had no idea what to expect when I came here tonight. Didn't know how… controlled the hedonism would be." I tear my eyes away from the choreographed performance. "I've also come to the sad realization that I probably think I'm more open-minded than I actually am."
He raises an eyebrow, faint crow's-feet fanning out around his eyes. Thirty, perhaps, or thirty-five. No more than a decade older than me. "Not used to seeing other people have sex?"
"Not in person," I admit.
He smiles at my words. "There are no musts here. You could spend your first time just admiring the scenery. Enjoying a few drinks. Making conversation."
My expression of dismay must have been clear, because he raises an eyebrow. "That doesn't interest you?"
"Well, I don't think I like the idea of being a voyeur. It seems intrusive, somehow."
He turns his face, but I catch the smile. "Most people here enjoy being watched. A closed door means off-limits, but open ones mean anyone is free to watch or join."
"Another one of the rules I don't know," I say, taking a sip of my champagne. Now that I'm here, now that I'm talking to this man… I'm not nervous anymore. It's like an out-of-body experience, and the Frederica Bilson who should be nervous doesn't even know she's here. I left her out in the corridor.
"There aren't many rules."
"Enlighten me?" I ask. "I'd hate to embarrass myself further."
He smiles, a slow and wide thing that makes my stomach tighten. The dim lighting casts shadows over his face. "It would be my pleasure," he says. "You already know the first one, and the most important one."
"Women initiate conversation?"
"Yes, as well as sex," he says. "Men can suggest it, if they've been spoken to, but it's considered more proper for the woman to speak the words."
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. "The Gilded Room is big on consent, then."
"It is, not to mention security. You won't see them, but there are guards stationed throughout the party."
"There are?"
Slowly, giving me time to react, he reaches over and puts his hands on my shoulders. They're warm and steady as he turns me toward the opposite corner. "The man in the back. Masked, wearing a leather loincloth?"
"That's security?"
"Yes. See the earpiece?"
I narrow my eyes. His hands are still on me, hot through the thin fabric of my dress. "No. He's too far away."
"Well, it's there. And you should get your eyesight checked."
"Hey, that's not nice."
His chuckle is hoarse as he turns me toward the bar. "One of the men sitting down, nursing a scotch. He's wearing a suit."
"They drink on the job?"
His hands slip from my shoulders. "It's likely apple juice. No one here wants to feel guarded, so they blend in. All part of the illusion."
"The illusion?"
"That we all just happened to be here tonight, that this is a real party, that we're not vetted and screened."
There's truth to that, I suppose. Security guards in uniform would ruin the mood. "So they step in if anyone gets too rowdy?"
"Yes, but that rarely happens. Few pay to get in here only to tempt a lifetime ban." He lifts his crystal tumbler and drinks, the long column of his throat moving.
"You're not wearing a mask. Wasn't that one of the rules?"
He shoots me a look. "Some rules can be broken."
"By the right people?"
He lifts a shoulder in an elegant shrug. Not denying it, not confirming it. A suspicion grows in my mind, and I narrow my eyes at him. "You're not the owner of the Gilded Room, are you? The operator?"
"Christ, no."
"You know a lot about how it works."
"It's not my first party," he counters. A second later and I feel the warmth of his hand on my arm. "Care to sit down?"
He nods to an empty couch nearby, further concealed in shadow. A pounding of nerves explodes beneath my breastbone. His hand falls away. "Women have all the power," he reminds me. "You say the word and I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night."
"What's the word?"
"'Go away' usually works, but that's two words."
I laugh. "I'll stick with that, then. Though it's not very polite."
"You can add please to it, if you like."
"How kind of you." We sink down on the couch, the leather cold under my legs. I cross them and clasp the champagne to my chest like a weapon. "So you're a regular?"
"I suppose you could call me that." He drapes his arm along the back of the couch, hand resting somewhere behind my head. We both look out over the crowd of people. What had seemed so orderly when I first arrived is now broken up, people divided into pairs or smaller groups. And dear God, a woman is completely naked on a couch across the room. Completely, one hundred percent nude. She's draped over a man's lap, his hands on her breasts. Another is working between her splayed legs.
I swallow at the sight. "Performers, too?"