Praise (Salacious Players’ Club)
Praise: Chapter 14

Charlie

Emerson: I will pick you up at eight.

Charlie: Sounds good. Thanks.

I got ready too early. Maybe I was just excited or eager or something, but I’ve been standing outside my mother’s house in a shimmery sapphire and gold floor-length gown since seven-forty-five. My mom and I got a manicure together and Sophie helped me curl my hair. I don’t remember the last time I ever got so dressed up, and I don’t understand why my stomach is being assaulted with butterflies.

But when his car pulls up, his windows are too tinted to see his face. I’m a little surprised that he’s driving. I thought millionaire business owners were chauffeured around by bald, beefy drivers in black suits, or maybe I’ve been reading too many of Sophie’s books.

When the door opens, and he steps out, walking around the car to open my door for me, I nearly lose my breath. Emerson always looks handsome, but in that satin blue suit, he looks so good it hurts my eyes. His dark brown hair is slicked back, and his beard has been trimmed to perfection.

I keep forgetting he’s old enough to be my dad, especially when he looks that good.

His eyes seem to linger on me as long as mine linger on him.

“Charlotte,” he says quietly, approaching me.

“Hi,” I stammer awkwardly.

“You look…so beautiful.”

There is something about his tone, the way he trips over his words and adds so in there as if saying I simply look beautiful isn’t enough. It tells me he’s not just dishing out compliments to be polite. He looks almost shaken as his eyes rake over my body.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

Then his gaze casts upward to my house and back to me.

“My mom’s on the night shift and Sophie’s at a sleepover, or else I’d introduce you to my family.”

“You have a nice home,” he replies, and I giggle at him. It’s a thirty-year-old split-level. The grass needs mowing and I can see the smudgy windows from here. Still, it’s nice to hear him call it lovely because it is lovely to me. Although it’s not nearly as fancy as his.

“Actually, I live in the guest house in the back.” I point to the side gate I use to get to the casita next to the pool. It was a big deal when we bought the house, and I’m pretty sure my dad thought he was pretty hot shit because his house came with a pool house.

“Ready?” He opens the passenger door for me and ushers me inside.

The moment we’re alone in the car, I get a whiff of his cologne, headier than his usual scent.

He seems tense as we drive, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Nervous?” I ask.

Emerson handles stress surprisingly well. He’s been busy these past few weeks, but he hasn’t shown an ounce of anxiety about the club opening.

“About the opening?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really. I have a good team. They’ve handled everything well.”

“You’re good at delegating,” I reply, and the compliment seems to ease some of his nerves. But if he’s not worried about the opening, what’s his problem?

We make small talk during the rest of the drive, and as we pull up to the valet, there’s not a soul outside except for two parking attendants waiting for us. One of them opens the door for me, and I wait for Emerson to round the car to stand next to me. He sticks his elbow out, and I glance up at him nervously before looping my arm through his.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” I say.

“Protect me?” That wrinkle is back between his brows but so is his smile.

“From the ladies. That’s what I’m here for, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” Then he leans down until his mouth brushes the lobe of my ear. “I thought you were here as my date.”

My lips part and I gaze back up at him. There hasn’t been another incident between us since the foot rub a couple weeks ago, and I’ll admit, it’s been excruciating. Every day I come into work hoping he might brush his hand against my lower back or lean in close enough while reading over my shoulder that I can feel his breath on my neck. My mild curiosity and subtle crush has turned into full-blown infatuation, and I’ve been looking forward to tonight for weeks.

I squeeze his arm as we stroll toward the door. Just before reaching to open it, he adds with a sly smile, “Besides, in that dress, you’ll be the one who needs protecting.”

A blush rises to my cheeks, and I squeeze his arm tighter.

It’s so quiet outside, but the second we pass through the front doors, that changes.

The lobby is dark with hazy red lights shining over the front desk and loud music echoes through the entire building. People are mingling around the edges of the room, all dressed in formal gowns and tuxedos. The partygoers fall silent when they recognize Emerson, and I cling even closer to him, as if I can actually protect him from anyone who might want to steal him away.

He nods to the woman behind the desk and she greets him with a warm, “Evening, Mr. Grant.”

I smile at her as we pass. A heavy black curtain separates the lobby from the main room, and Emerson holds it open for me. It’s not as crowded in here as I anticipated, but I guess that’s what I should have expected in such an exclusive club.

“Oh my God, Emerson…it’s amazing,” I say, holding my hand to my lips. There’s a crowd of people around the bar and a DJ’s playing at the front of the room on the stage. Dancers twirl around the poles, and quite a few people are dancing in the middle of the dance floor. The private rooms are all open, and it makes me wonder if people will actually have sex in there tonight. Is that even legal? I mean…it’s no different than a hotel room, right?

Toward the back is the hallway where I found the throne room, but there’s a bouncer standing by the door and a red rope keeping people out. It’s ominous, without a sign telling people what is down the hallway, although I know: rooms with windows and plenty of opportunities to live out your wildest fantasies.

“Emerson!” a voice calls from the bar. We both turn to see Garrett heading our way. When his eyes fall on me, he does a double take. Even as he shakes Emerson’s hand, he remains staring at me.

Then, as he points at me, he says, “Charlotte?”

“Am I that unrecognizable in a dress?”

“You look beautiful,” he says, as he takes my hand in his and brings it to his lips.

“That’s enough,” Emerson snaps, pulling me away. Garrett and I laugh in unison.

“Need a drink?” Garrett asks as a server with flutes of champagne strolls by. He grabs three and hands one to each of us. While I sip on my bubbly, the men chat about the opening. I tune them out, letting my eyes scan the dark room. At first, everything looked normal, but as my eyes adjust, I notice certain things.

Like a woman holding a leash that’s connected to a shirtless man’s neck beside her.

People browsing the open rooms as if they’re picking out their favorites.

And a group of very rich-looking men sitting at one of the tables while someone doles out cards.

My eyes also catch on a girl kneeling next to one of the men gambling. He’s stroking her hair as he stares at the cards in his hand. She looks so content, a lazy smile plastered on her face as she nuzzles her cheek against his leg.

I can’t take my eyes off of her, thinking about that day in Emerson’s office when he told me to kneel. Is this what he does with his girls? Does he pet their heads like they’re dogs?

Why does it disgust me in theory? But seeing him pet her head lovingly, adoringly…it seems almost romantic.

My eyes catch on a pair of dark, ominous eyes watching me from across the room, stealing my thoughts away from the woman on her knees. It’s an older man, probably in his late fifties, and there’s something oddly familiar about him, but not in a way my memory can place him. A slight fear settles over me at the thought that he could be someone from my regular life—

“Can I have this dance?” Emerson whispers, clutching my waist and stealing my thoughts. I barely noticed that the music has changed to a sultry, slow dance beat. There are couples scattered across the floor, grinding their bodies together, and I gulp, looking up at Emerson.

He must sense my apprehension because he leans down and adds, “It’s not the Electric Slide, but I think you can handle it.”

A laugh slips through my lips. Damn, that champagne is kicking in already. I’m such a lightweight. The next thing I know, I’m electric sliding my hand into his and letting him pull me onto the dance floor. I briefly wonder for a moment if people look at us and think he’s too old for me. Then I realize that in this place, there’s really nothing too taboo or unacceptable. No wonder people feel comfortable here. It’s freeing.

“Relax, Charlotte,” he mutters, his deep voice seeping into my bloodstream and making me instantly melt into his hold.

His broad arms engulf me as his hand slides across my ass, pulling me so close I can feel his heartbeat through his chest. It feels as if Emerson is keeping me safe, buried against his body, and even though there’s nothing I need protecting from, I like the way it makes me feel.

Our bodies shift together to the music. Every time I look up at him, our faces are so close, we’re almost kissing, but as much as I would love to feel Emerson’s lips against mine, I’m not sure that’s really what he wants to do with me, so I keep my gaze fixed on various places around the room, where I, once again, replace myself staring at the woman on her knees.

“What are you looking at?” he whispers next to my ear, and I bite my lip and turn away.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

“Liar,” he teases.

“Fine.” I look up at him. “Is that what you do with your other secretaries? Pet them while they kneel at your feet?” My eyes dance toward the kneeling woman, and I watch Emerson glance her way. A gentle smile curves his lips upward.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Sometimes.”

A flutter of excitement courses through my veins. It’s so strange to imagine Emerson in that role. I can’t bear to imagine another woman at his feet, so I imagine what it might feel like to gaze up at him like that. To feel him touch my head in such a loving gesture. To think of him like that, playing such a dominant, commanding role…that he claims isn’t inherently sexual—it still arouses me.

We stare at each other a moment as I ponder how to phrase this next question. “Do you wish you had a secretary like that now?”

I can’t outright ask, ‘Do you want me to be like that for you?’ Because we’ve already established that it’s inappropriate and out of the question—no matter how curious I am. But I am a little worried that he would prefer a girl like that over me. That I’m…not enough for him. The thought actually pains me.

He leans in and I have to shut my eyes because I’m overwhelmed by how close he is to kissing me. Is he actually trying to kill me? “You know they weren’t actually my secretaries, right? Or at least they weren’t very good ones. Not as good as you.”

I force a small laugh, trying to maintain my composure with his nearness. “Too bad you can’t have the best of both worlds.” I level him with a look that speaks volumes. “A good secretary who’s a good sub.”

His smile fades as he stares back, his gaze sliding down from my eyes to my mouth. As his hand coasts along my lower back, he pulls me against his hard body even closer.

“Yeah…that’s too bad.”