"I doubt it," he murmurs. "They just got inspired."
Perhaps my silence says it all, because he laughs quietly, stretching out long legs in front of him. "I have to say, gorgeous, that you have me curious."
"Curious?"
"Yes. How did a woman like you end up with an invite to the Gilded Room."
I frown. "A woman like me?"
"So clearly strait-laced," he says, meeting my gaze with one of his own. "Someone who loves being in control. Who fears letting go."
"I don't fear letting go."
He raises an eyebrow, and I blow out a breath. "All right, I do, but I'm sure everyone does to some degree. Do you think it's holding me back here tonight?"
"I don't know. Do you think it is?"
"I'm not sure," I say. "So far I'm watching a performance of live sex… well, almost-sex, while having a conversation with a perfect stranger. I'd say I'm letting go already."
His smile flashes. "It's not almost-sex anymore."
I look at the stage and then quickly away, my gaze settling back on his face. His smile widens at my expression. "I'm not shocked," I protest.
"Sure you're not."
"Not strait-laced at all."
"Then look," he challenges.
So I do. I turn full toward the stage, to where one of the women is riding the man handcuffed to the chair. The look of pleasure on his face makes it clear he bears the weight of restraint gladly. The pounding of my blood rises as I watch them, the silky movement of her hips and the glaze in his eyes. The way they revel in us observing them.
"Okay," I murmur. "I get it."
"The appeal?"
"Yes."
His deep laughter rolls over my skin like soft thunder. "Not so opposed to being a voyeur after all."
"I suppose it has its appeals." I wet my lips and drag my gaze from the stage to him. "You know, I think anonymity does too."
"It certainly does," he agrees. "Even if you know someone inside of here, you're not allowed to acknowledge it."
My eyebrows rise. "Let's say I knew your name. I wouldn't be allowed to call you by it?"
"No. Some people do break that, though."
"The couples who come here must."
"They're the worst offenders." He tips his head back and drains the last amber liquid in his glass, a thick watch on his wrist. It looks expensive.
"But you're not here with someone?"
"I'm not," he confirms, reaching past me to set down his glass. The movement brings with it the scent of whiskey and sandalwood. "Nor are you."
"How are you so sure?"
"I doubt a partner of yours would leave you alone this long."
"Well, I doubt I'd have a partner who put so little faith in me that he had to watch me constantly."
His eyes spark. "Oh, that's not what I meant. No, he wouldn't be able to stay away from the trouble you might be getting into."
I glance down into my champagne glass and away from the force of his gaze. "You're good at this."
"At complimenting a woman?" He snorts, but I think it's more at himself than at me. "I try my best."
I tilt my head and observe him. Here in the dark alcove, with the incense of the party mixing with heady intimacy, it feels like I could ask him anything. "What do you usually do at these parties?"
"Searching for inspiration?"
"Perhaps I want to know who I'm dealing with," I murmur.
He leans back on the sofa, pulling his shoulders back. "What happens at these parties doesn't leave them."
"Well, we're at a Gilded Room party," I say. "So talking about past exploits wouldn't break that rule."
His lip curves, an acknowledgment of the loophole. "You know, I keep trying to figure out if you got into the Gilded Room because of your brains or your beauty, and it's damn difficult to decide."
"It has to be one or the other?"
He sweeps an arm at the party. "Most people here pay for membership, men more often than women, after they've been approved by the selection committee. But there are always a few women who don't, and who are granted membership solely from their looks."
"Well, that seems sexist."
He laughs, the hand behind me brushing the bare skin of my shoulder. "So you're not one of those women. You could be, though."
I frown at him, which only makes him grin wider. "So I'm one of the women who could have benefitted from a loophole that is in and of itself pretty sexist?"
"I never claimed my compliments were politically correct."
"No, you didn't." Ignoring the nerves resurfacing, I slip out of my heels and pull my legs up on the sofa. His fingers don't leave my shoulder. "I saw you speaking to a woman earlier. You'd been approached by someone?"
"Several someones," he acknowledges. "But you'd already smiled at me from across the room. I told them I was called for."
The nerves ranch up a notch. "Oh. Was I that intriguing?"
"I'd never seen you here before."