And the prize for the most moronic decision. Ever. Goes to … me!

The black, heavy, iron door shuts behind my friend Harper and me, and I push my ears into my shoulders while my heart somersaults. I tighten my hands in a death grip around my clutch, then after a calming breath, I take one step and another.

The entrance resembles the hallway of a very expensive boutique hotel. Dark-red walls contrast with a violent sensuality against the black and white houndstooth-patterned carpet. Majestic gold-framed mirrors on both sides lure me in toward the four small elevators at the far side of the building.

“Don’t be so scared. It’ll be fun, I promise,” Harper says, leaning toward me.

Sure, like those crazy people who find it fun to jump off bridges while tied up to a glorified elastic band.

I nod at Harper before she turns her back to me and whispers something to the goateed human house with luscious, deep-red hair that women would pay a fortune for. He stands by the door, studying me.

To stop from fidgeting, I lock my knees and display the only smile I’m capable of, but when his amber glare zeroes in on me, my heart pounds furiously against my eardrums.

I bet the redheaded giant can hear it too.

Where’s the loud music? We’re in a club. I should hear music.

Harper taps on the giant’s chest. “Bruce, this is my friend, Ava.”

The human house grunts, grins at me, and for a split second, the world tilts on its axis and I just stare at his white teeth while Harper chuckles.

“Do you need jetons?” he asks Harper.

Harper turns her will-you-dare expression to my heated face. “Do you want jetons?”

Dear God. I gawk at them and clear my throat. “No … N-no. I’m … j-just want … w-want to watch.”

Bruce raises a brow and leans closer. “Well, you might need jetons for that too, doll.”

All right. Time to run. I point my scuttling foot toward the door.

Harper holds my wrist in a strong grip. “No, we’re good. Maybe next time,” she replies with a bright smile before she leads me down carpeted stairs.

What am I doing here? This is a mistake. A huge one.

“Hello, Ash, Jenna. How are you this evening?” Harper greets a well-dressed couple before shifting her gaze toward me to whisper, “Go ahead, sweetie. I have a table.”

On shaky legs, I make it to the bottom of the stairs and gasp as I enter the main room.

The place is sumptuous and not at all the dark, damp dungeon I expected. I take in the huge, modern, silver chandelier and the softly lit tables enhanced by the marble floors. It has all the appearance of a normal—albeit expensive—romantic restaurant, and I sigh in relief. Harper was right, the club, aptly named, The Club—because someone forgot to take their creativity pill that day—doesn’t look like a sex club.

I wince internally. Am I being judgmental by calling it a sex club? Harper doesn’t. She, with her best friend, Kincaid Michaels—the maverick of the financial world, and three of their wealthy friends have created a luxurious microcosmos called Haven. It’s comprised of two classic nightclubs, a boutique hotel where the stars love to go into hiding, a fleet of six upscale bars and restaurants, and The Club. But the latter isn’t advertised on their glossy brochures.

Only a select few are entrusted with the knowledge of its existence, and there’s been so many whispers and unknowns surrounding it that it became somewhat of an urban legend. I’d personally never heard of it until Harper told me about it a couple of years after we met at a gala at the museum.

The admission to The Club is a tightly controlled process, and members, only after being unanimously voted in by the five owners, are vetted through an extensive health, financial, and moral background check to ensure the privacy and safety of the patrons. There’s no exchange of money here, and everything from the Michelin-starred food to the exquisite and expansive collection of liquors is included in the onerous yearly membership paid to be part of this hedonistic Eden.

Harper, who’s in charge of the public relations and marketing of Haven, explained that at The Club, women are empowered in their sexuality by being offered jetons to choose partners to fulfill their fantasies or engage in sexual games in any of the playrooms on the higher floors.

Or are free to just eat, dance, and be merry.

“Do you have a reservation?”

The melodious voice belongs to a pretty, young woman dressed in a tight black dress who smiles at me.

“I’m with Harper Willis.”

“Oh, you’re Harper’s friend? Let me show you to her table.”

I follow her to a raised area in the corner surrounded by a balcony of sorts and climb the three steps leading to an oval table with comfortable, plush leather sofas with high backrests. By the time I settle down, my heart rhythm is no longer a deafening drum. From here, I can view the whole restaurant, but each table is set up as its own little universe by way of ornate bamboo dividers and cleverly placed plants.

I scan the menu and salivate. They have oysters.

Nestling deeper into the seat, I scoff while I discreetly eye the other patrons, all fully dressed.

I’m not a prude—well, I don’t think I am—and I have no issues with kink, sexual or otherwise, as long as it’s between consenting adults. But when Harper invited me for the umpteenth time to come out and make my own opinion, I had run out of excuses and let my curiosity win over. So, here I am. Way, way out of my depth.

The charming hostess comes back to take my order, and I feel absolutely decadent when I order oysters for myself, wings for Harper, and two mojitos.

She smiles as she leans closer. “The viewing den is open tonight. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Harper mentioned the den where anyone can watch people having sex. I bare my teeth at her retreating silhouette as my face heats up.

Maybe if I sneak out while Harper’s busy, she won’t be too angry with me. I strain my neck toward the stairs. There’s no sign of her. I clutch my purse, slide my legs against the smooth leather to the end of the table, and stand up. I gasp when I bump into a human wall. I bounce back, hit the back of my knees on the seat, and lose my balance, my arms flaying like the uncoordinated wings of a broken windmill.

Ava Lawson. Nil point for grace.

The tall man catches my arm to stop me from falling on my butt and chuckles.

“S-s-sorry.” I suck in a breath. Wow. He’s gorgeous. Dark eyes and hair—it’s difficult to tell in this low lighting. I’m wearing heels, but he towers over me.

“Don’t be. It’s my fault for startling you.” He smiles and extends his hand. “I’m Mason, and I wanted to personally welcome you to The Club.”

I gape for a few seconds too long at his t-shirt that barely hides his wide shoulders and place my hand in his. “I’m-m … A-Ava.”

“Yes, Harp’s friend.” He frowns and checks out the stairwell area. “Where’s Harper?”

“Here,” Harper answers from behind him, and he pivots toward her.

“Harper, good to see you again.”

His jaw clenches and his shoulders tense in seconds, and for the first time, I witness my friend’s expression become … hard. Huh-ho. There’s history there. I almost wish I was one for gossip because anything happening with that man has to be interesting.

“Mace, I see you’ve met Ava,” she says with a tight smile that stays on her lips. She turns to me. “Sweetie, this is Mace, one of the owners.”

Mason bows slightly. “Ladies, have a good evening. Ava, pleased to meet you.”

“S-same,” I reply, but he’s already gone.

I scoot over the curved seat while Harper settles next to me. Her lips are pinched, and she exhales with her lids closed. I touch her wrist. “Is everything all right?”

She straightens her shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good.” She throws her megawatt grin at me. “So, what do you think?”

Our hostess brings our order and glides away.

Harper glances at the silver square tray filled with crushed ice before me and curls her lip in disgust. “How can you eat these?”

I giggle before I slurp an oyster and lick its syrup off my bottom lip. I choke and cough when another tall man just … stands there. What is it with tall men just appearing at our table? I crane my neck up and up to meet icy blue eyes framed by strong arched brows set on me.

Harper smiles at him. “Caid, hi.”

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Dear God, his voice rumbles over the small space to brush my skin, and I shiver while my heart gallops.

“Ava, sweetie, this is Caid.”

I snap out of his hypnotic gaze and wave at him. A cringeworthy, stupid little wave with my arm folded tight to my side and my fingers splayed wide. “H-Hi.”

He dips his chin. “Ms. Lawson, welcome. I hope you’ll enjoy your evening with us.”