2. Little Troublemaker

Instead of waiting for an answer, he takes my hand and leads me back into the center of the floor. He moves confidently, easily, light on his feet. This guy’s a better dancer than I am, and while a part of me wants to be annoyed, I’m mostly impressed.

The song ends, another one seamlessly begins, and we remain where we are, dancing. I’m renewed once more, baptized in the music. I feel incandescent.

Also, exhausted. We dance through a couple more songs, and I’m panting for breath. The guy offers me his hand again and I take it, allowing him to lead me back to the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “But thanks. I’m just having lime soda. Vincent there will hook me up.”

A minute later, my new friend is sipping a whiskey and I’m gulping down soda. If I wasn’t worried about ruining my expensive make-up, I would press the ice-cold glass to my overheated face.

The guy leans in close. Smiles. There’s a very, very subtle dimple in his right cheek. So faint that if his whiskers were any longer, I wouldn’t be able to see it. He has brown eyes, but in the strange club lights, I can’t tell what shade. His hair is dark brown, but his eyes might be lighter.

He says, “You’re an excellent dancer.”

“Thanks.” Several years of competitive cheerleading provided the basics. Hours spent dancing to excise pent-up anger in my bedroom as a teenager did the rest.

“You’re too young for me,” he says, leaning back and sipping his whiskey. “You’re probably nothing but trouble, little troublemaker.”

I wave a hand at the club and put on a disaffected air. “So, leave. I’m not forcing you to talk to me.”

“I’ve been trying to make myself leave, and I can’t. You’re at least twenty-one, right?”

“They wouldn’t let me in otherwise. I’m twenty-six, though.”

With a concerned expression on his face, he says, “I just turned forty last week.”

“Happy belated.” I lift my soda and clink it against his glass.

He scowls. “That doesn’t scare you off?”

“That you’re forty? Nah. I’m here to make different choices than I’d normally make.” Shit, I shouldn’t have said that out loud.

“Look,” he says, his brown eyes twinkling as if he knows my secrets. “No pressure. Obviously. Maybe it’s too much. But if you’re interested, my friend is a member here. He has a room.”

“A room…?” I look around. Is this place some kind of secret hotel?

“Look upstairs.” He points upward.

Okay, the travel blog did not mention the second level. It’s cloaked in shadows, but there’s a fairly obvious staircase off to the side of the bar, past the entrance. I can see windows, but they’re tinted. The strobe lights from this floor barely touch them.

“I’m going to go up there,” he says. “I’ll relax. Watch the people dancing, have a drink in a quieter place. I’d love for you to join me, Trouble.”

He’s leaving it entirely up to me. I’ve gotten into San Esteban’s most exclusive club, danced my heart out, and met a handsome stranger. Do I want to push my luck further?

The Evelyn of a month ago never would have dared.

But I’m no longer the Evelyn of a month ago. I’m the Evelyn of tonight.

Slowly, I set down my drink. I lean forward, giving him a glimpse of my cleavage. Then I look deeply into his beautiful eyes. To his credit, his gaze only flicks briefly to my tits before returning to my face.

He leans forward, too. He’s so close, he could kiss me. But there’s no kiss. He says, “So, Trouble? What’s it going to be?”

“Yes,” I say.

The smile on his face is predatory, but it doesn’t scare me. Instead it sends the most delicious of thrills up my legs, where that thrill pulses insistently at my clit.

Standing up, he holds out his arm in an old-fashioned sort of way so I can link my arm with his. With a guy my age, this would feel pretentious or ironic. With this man? It feels right.

We walk partway up the stairs to where a woman wearing black slacks and a black collared shirt stands.

The guy with me—I still haven’t gotten his name—says to her, “We’re with Caleb.”

The bouncer nods like she’s been expecting him. “Can I see some ID?”

He takes his wallet from his pocket, flashes his card in front of the bouncer. She nods again and steps to the side. “Go on up. Room Two.”

Up we go. When we reach a door with a small Two emblazoned on the wall next to it, the guy holds up his hand to knock.

Just before his knuckles make contact, a second man opens the door.

Holy. Freaking. Heck.

He’s just as gorgeous as the man next to me, and looks to be close to him in years. Graying blond hair. Light eyes, probably blue, but maybe green. Faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth. A medium-stubble beard graces his face, giving him slightly longer whiskers than the guy at my side has.

A part of me wonders if Troy’s betrayal has put me off guys my age, because why else would I be so attracted to these men? They’re in their early forties—a decade and a half older than me.

“Hey there,” the new man says to me. Caleb, I’m assuming. Then to the guy next to me, he says, “I’m heading down to get some champagne. Be back soon. Don’t start without me.”

Start without him? Start what? I open my mouth to ask, but he’s walking past us and the first guy is leading me into a richly decorated room. It’s done mostly in black, with ivory accents. At the rear of the room is another door with an all-gender restroom sign. In the middle, there are three black leather love seats situated around a square coffee table. Beyond that, large windows open to a balcony overlooking the dance floor.

“This is…fancy,” I say.

He’s still holding my hand. Giving me a little tug, he brings me closer to him. “Yeah. Can I kiss you?”

Whoa. He’s just jumping right into this, isn’t he? Then again, his friend could come back at any second. If I’m going to kiss him, which I desperately want to do, I’d better do it now.

Grinning up at him, I say, “Sure, old man. Kiss me.”

“Old man,” he huffs. But there’s a smile in his eyes as he leans forward, cups my cheek in his hand, and meets my lips with his.

His lips are soft as they caress mine. He tastes faintly of whiskey, and I inhale deeply, loving how distinguished and rich it makes me feel. I open my mouth, eager for more, but he pulls away.

His brown eyes twinkle as he asks, “What’s your name, Trouble?”

Fake name. Give a fake name. I try to think of something, but in the end, I can’t make myself do it, so I pick a nickname. One that nobody uses. People usually call me Evelyn or E.

“Evie,” I say, with a long e at the start. Ee-vee.

“I like it.” He smiles, showing me that dimple again. “Don’t you want to know my name?”

I give him a wicked grin of my own. “I think old man suits you.”

He laughs and says, “Not that. How about you call me Daddy?”

What? Holy crap. No. But...yes. I told myself I’d say yes. This doesn’t hurt anyone, does it? Maybe it’s a poor choice, but there’s only tonight in front of me, nothing else.

“Yes,” I say, slowly. “Daddy.”

I’m surprised at how much I like saying it. The word causes a pulse of nerves to light up between my legs. I came up here eager to try new things, and I wasn’t sure I would like it all. But so far? I’m more aroused than I’ve ever been.

This is what I wasted the last four years missing out on?

“Fuck, it turns me on to hear you say that,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. “Say it again.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He cradles my face in his hands, looks into my eyes. “Evie, the things I want to do with you tonight…”

Do them, I think. Do it all.

“What do you have in mind?” I ask instead. Because even if I’m a more reckless version of Evelyn, now, I’m not ready to give carte blanche approval to every dirty, filthy thing he asks.

Okay, I might be ready. My pussy certainly is. But I need to think with my brain.

“Well.” His voice is low and soft, sliding against my skin, under my clothes.

I shiver in anticipation.

“First,” he continues in that low, sensuous voice, “I want to touch you. Everywhere. Can I touch you now?”

Heck yes. I nod.

“Tell me with words, Trouble.”

“Yes. Touch me, please.”

He grins like he’s just been given permission to do something wicked. And, in a sense, he has. He lets go of my hand and lets his own fall to the hem of my dress. His fingertips play along the outside of my thigh, teasing.

I thought swooning was something out of romantic movies, but here I am, weak-kneed, leaning toward this man like he has me under some kind of spell.

“You like that?” he asks, angling his head toward my cheek and brushing a kiss there.

“More,” I say, trying to drag his hand up, and in.

With a chuckle, he says, “Patience, Trouble.”

How am I supposed to have patience? The last time I had sex was with slimy Troy. He was drunk and didn’t even try to make sure I had a good time. I’d been so touch-starved, I’d happily taken those scraps of his attention.

Attention. I need to pay attention. There’s something else going on here, and my brain is trying to remind me of it…

“Your friend,” I finally say. “He’s coming back, right?”

“He is.”

“Maybe we should go somewhere else…?”

“Is that a question, or a request?”

I pull back slightly to stare up at him. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of rude for us to hook up in the room he got, while he’s off to the side doing his own thing.”

With a playfully raised eyebrow, he says, “I suppose it could be rude. Unless he likes to watch.”