“Um. Should I be afraid?”
“No.” Dorian laughed, so rough and gravelly it made her wet. “You should be utterly terrified.”
Chapter Forty-Three
“Three conditions,” Dorian said, his firm tone leaving no room for discussion.
“Conditions?” Charley gulped as he led her down a corridor in the basement of his Tribeca penthouse—all part of the building he owned. She hadn’t even seen his actual apartment yet; the moment she’d stepped out of Jameson’s limo, Dorian whisked her away without so much as a kiss hello.
“Normally I require a signed agreement,” he continued, “but I’ll make an exception. Just don’t mention it to Aiden.”
“A signed agreement? Aiden?” Charley’s mouth went dry, a mix of curiosity and anxiety roiling in her stomach. She had no idea Dorian could be so… official about things.
Rough sex, dirty talk, bondage? Hell yes, she could get into all that—even with a vampire. Especially her vampire.
But a secret room? That required signed forms? That his best friend, business partner, and fellow vampire knew about?
Just how kinky is this man?
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Charley said, second-guessing her decision to meet him tonight. “Let’s go out for dinner instead. Suddenly I’m craving dim sum.”
“The conditions are simple, really,” Dorian said, ignoring her protests. They’d reached a door at the end of the corridor, and he punched a lengthy alarm code into the keypad above the handle—a code she thankfully didn’t see. It beeped and flashed green, and he cracked open the door.
“One,” Dorian said, turning to face her. His muscled body blocked her view into the dark room, but she could still make out the faint glow of colored lights, the hum of electronics in the distance. “What I’m about to show you is highly confidential. You must never tell a soul what we do in here.”
Charley’s knees weakened, but she nodded, anticipation barely winning out over anxiety, both rushing hot and prickly through her bloodstream.
“Two, I make the rules. For your own safety, you must obey me.”
“But… rules?” Charley’s voice was creaky and thin, her lips dry. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What’s the third condition?”
Dorian winked—definitely not a good sign—and reached inside the doorway to grab something. When he finally revealed it, Charley’s heart dropped straight into her stomach.
“Three, protective gear must be worn at all times.” With a wicked grin, Dorian handed her a helmet and a set of kneepads, then fastened a thick black bracelet to her wrist. “Heart rate monitor.”
Charley trembled inside, her heart already pounding, sending the monitor into a frenzy. The kneepads were light and flexible, but the helmet wasn’t. The thing had a face shield that felt like bulletproof glass.
Whatever lay beyond that doorway was serious business.
“Frightened, little mouse?” he teased, clearly enjoying her torment.
Still. After so much build-up, there was no way she could walk away now. She had to know what awaited her in the darkness.
“I don’t scare off that easily, Mr. Redthorne.” With a defiant smirk, she pulled the kneepads on and fastened the helmet, hoping he didn’t notice the tremble in her hands.
Could she do this? Give herself over completely to whatever dark fantasies lived in Dorian’s wicked mind?
How far would he take it?
How far would she let him take it?
Her brain was screaming at her to run, to call the whole game off. But she’d missed him too much, missed his kiss and his touch, and beneath her jeans, she throbbed with fresh desire.
“Are you ready, Ms. D’Amico?” Dorian lifted her face shield and took her hand. She couldn’t read his expression; he’d gone neutral.
Charley closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She’d had plenty of practice shutting off her brain, but she’d never ignored her instincts. Her physical being. Her desire. And right now, despite her trepidations, that desire was on red alert.
Whatever he’s got in store, you fucking want it, girl.
Opening her eyes, she flashed another smirk. “Show me to my demise, Mr. Redthorne.”
“With pleasure.” Dorian led her inside and turned on the lights, bathing the room in a soft red glow that gave off an upscale club vibe. “But first, a drink.”
Charley shivered, her nerves firing off in rapid succession as Dorian led her to the bar, gesturing for her to take a seat as he stepped behind it to play bartender.
A bar. Seriously. His freaky, secret sex dungeon had a bar.
It was like a club, just as she’d thought. A kinky, sexy-as-hell club that Charley—now that she was here—couldn’t wait to explore.
But the moment she looked around—really looked around—her nervous anticipation turned into a giggle, and within ten seconds, that giggle exploded into unabashed, belly-aching laughter.
“Oh my God,” she said. “This is a game room. As in… video games.”
With a shameless grin, Dorian sliced a lime and dropped it into her drink. “What else would it be?”
Charley couldn’t get her laughter under control. “But… the helmet? And the whole ‘the first rule of the secret room is don’t talk about the secret room’ thing?”
Dorian handed her a Sapphire and tonic. Pouring himself a scotch, he said, “Nothing I’m about to show you—including the gear you’re wearing—is on the market. The game I have in mind for us is called Midnight Marauder, and it’s still in beta. If the FierceConnect board knew I’d let you see it without signing the non-disclosure, they’d probably fire me from my own company. Cheers, love.”
Charley clinked her glass to his, her laughter finally subsiding. After a long pull of her drink, she set down the glass and met Dorian’s eyes. “I have a confession, but you’re not allowed to laugh.”
“Hmm.” He leaned across the bar, trailing a finger along her collarbone. “I hope it’s about your naughtiest fantasies.”
A shiver overtook her, her body responding immediately to his touch, igniting a firestorm across her skin. God, she’d missed him. What had she been thinking, blowing him off all week?
Feeling the blush in her cheeks, she said, “I thought you had some kind of… room.”
“Room?”
“A secret, kinky, sex-dungeon room.”
Dorian’s eyes glittered, his mouth wet from the scotch. “My, my, Ms. D’Amico. You have quite the imagination.”
“It’s your fault, Mr. Redthorne.”
“I’d hate to disappoint you. Perhaps we can make a compromise.”
Charley narrowed her eyes.
“You have to wear protective gear,” he said, his voice dark and low. “But you don’t have to wear clothing.”
“You are a scoundrel and a reprobate,” she teased, hopping off the barstool. “Now that you got me here under false pretenses, the least you could do is give me the tour.”
“My pleasure. Follow me.”
Unlike Dorian’s sprawling manor, the game room boasted no fine art, no priceless ancient statues, no hand-woven tapestries from dynasties long past. Instead, it was sleek and modern, with black padded walls and surround-sound speakers. The bar took up one side of the room, complete with cocktail tables and chairs. A massive curved screen dominated the front of the room, and at the back, Charley spotted a half-dozen old stand-up arcade games—Ms. Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Space Invaders, and a few she didn’t recognize.