Sharing Emily at the club

The bass pulsed through the VIP lounge like a second heartbeat, vibrating the ice in Kevin's gin and tonic. He watched Emily across the low glass table—how the club's strobe lights caught the nervous flutter of her lashes, the way her fingers kept smoothing down the slinky silver dress *he'd* picked out for her. The client—Reynolds from Berkshire Holdings—hadn't stopped staring at Emily's legs since they'd arrived, his tongue darting out to wet his lips every time she shifted on the plush velvet couch.

"Em, sweetheart," Kevin murmured, leaning close enough for his breath to stir the baby hairs at her temple. She smelled like vanilla and the expensive champagne Reynolds kept refilling her glass with. "Relax. It's just drinks." His hand settled high on her thigh, fingertips brushing the hem of her dress where it rode up. Emily stiffened, her knee jerking away from Reynolds' creeping hand on her other side.

The client chuckled, swirling his whiskey. "Shy little thing, isn't she?" His thumb rubbed circles on Emily's wrist where he'd captured it, his signet ring catching the light. "Don't worry, darling. Kevin here tells me you're *full* of surprises."

Emily's gaze darted to Kevin's face—a silent plea he pretended not to see. Instead, he nudged her champagne flute toward her lips with his free hand. "Drink up," he urged, too quietly for Reynolds to hear over the music. "It'll help." Her throat worked as she swallowed, the delicate line of it exposed when she tilted her head back. Kevin's mouth went dry watching the way Reynolds' eyes tracked the movement.

When the bass dropped, Reynolds seized his chance. "Dance with me," he demanded, already hauling Emily up by the elbow. She stumbled into him, her hands braced against his chest—too polite to shove, too startled to protest properly. Kevin watched her lips form the word *no*, but the music swallowed it whole.

The dance floor swallowed *her* whole moments later, Reynolds' meaty hands sliding down to grip her hips as he ground against her from behind. Emily's spine went rod-straight, her fingers clutching at the fabric of her own dress like a lifeline. Kevin took another sip of his drink, the ice clinking mockingly. She'd looked at him just like that their first time—wide-eyed, trembling—before he'd taught her how good it could feel.

Reynolds wasn't teaching. He was *taking*—mouth sloppy against Emily's neck, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs where the dress had ridden up. Kevin could see the exact moment panic set in; the way Emily's manicured nails scrabbled at Reynolds' wrist when he yanked the thin strap of her dress down over one shoulder. Her mouth opened—to scream, to beg, Kevin would never know—because Reynolds chose that moment to spin her around and crush his lips to hers.

The VIP section swallowed them whole—a velvet-draped alcove where the music dulled to a muffled throb and the air smelled like spilled cognac and cigar smoke. Reynolds' grip on Emily's wrist didn't loosen as he dragged her past the bouncer, his colleague—a thick-necked man with cold eyes—falling into step behind them like a shadow. The booth was a U-shaped pit of black leather, so deep Emily's knees hit the edge before she realized they'd stopped. Reynolds shoved her down onto the cushions with a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "There we go, princess. Cozy, huh?"

His colleague slid in beside her, boxing her in while Reynolds signaled a waiter for another bottle. Emily's pulse hammered in her throat as the man's thigh pressed against hers, warm and unyielding. She twisted toward the opening, but Reynolds dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder, his thumb brushing the exposed skin where her dress strap had slipped. "Where you going, sweetheart?" His breath reeked of whiskey and something medicinal. "Party's just starting."

The waiter returned with a bottle of something amber and three glasses. Reynolds poured with exaggerated care, sloshing liquor over the rim of Emily's glass before pushing it toward her. "Drink," he said, too pleasantly. His colleague—*Garrett*, she'd heard Reynolds call him—took his own glass and downed it in one gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing. Emily's fingers trembled around her glass. The ice cubes clinked like teeth.

Reynolds leaned in, his knee jostling hers under the table. "Kevin says you've got a mouth on you," he murmured, his pinky finger hooking around her dangling earring to tug gently. "Let's see it."

Kevin's gin and tonic left a wet ring on the glass table as he stood, smoothing his tie down with a hand that didn't quite tremble. The strobe lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw as he crossed the lounge—the same predatory grace that had made Emily shiver in his office last week when he'd pinned her wrists to the filing cabinet. Now, watching Reynolds' meaty fingers dig into Emily's bare thigh, Kevin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mind if I cut in?"

Emily's breath hitched when Kevin's palm settled on the small of her back—familiar, possessive. Reynolds chuckled, shifting to make space in the booth, his knee bumping Emily's as he gestured to the half-empty bottle. "Help yourself, pal. We were just getting acquainted with your little... *assistant*." The pause before the word made Emily's skin prickle.

Kevin's fingers traced the goosebumps rising on Emily's arm as he poured himself three fingers of bourbon. The ice cracked when he took his first sip, his other hand sliding up Emily's thigh beneath the table—higher than Reynolds had dared, his thumb brushing the lace edge of her panties. Emily stiffened, her fingernails biting into her own knees, but Kevin just smiled against the rim of his glass. "She's got a way of getting under your skin, doesn't she?"

Reynolds' grin widened as he leaned across Emily to refill Kevin's drink, his cufflink catching in her hair. "Oh, I bet." His knee nudged hers again under the table—deliberately this time—and Emily flinched when his hand landed on her shoulder, fingers kneading the tense muscle there. "Seems nervous, though. You'd think she'd never done this before."

Kevin's laugh was a dark, warm thing that curled around Emily's ribs like smoke. "Oh, she has." His fingers dipped beneath her panties, stroking once—*twice*—just enough to make her thighs press together. "Just not with an audience."