Erotique: Jillian. Susan LyonsЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      I realize Dominique, the pretty tuxedo-clad blonde who greeted me when I entered Erotique, has stopped in front of a mahogany door.

      “Through here is the Tease room,” she says. “If you have any questions or need any help, just look for one of the Erotique staff. We’re all in tuxes, no masks, and we wear this pin.” She touches a gold pin on her left lapel.

      I’d thought it was simply jewelry, and now squint more closely through the eyeholes of my elaborate mask. Exquisitely styled, the pin shows nude male and female figures intertwined in intercourse.

      Very fitting for a private sex club. “I love it.”

      “Me, too.” She gives me a warm smile. “You understand, Tease is just the first of the rooms? They’re all interconnected. You can move on to Seduction, Passion, Kink, all the way to the BDSM room, Dungeons & Dragons.”

      Oh no, I won’t be going there. I love sex, but not things like bondage or infliction of pain.

      I really do have to wonder about my boss, Carrie. After all, it’s because of her that I’m here. I think back to our conversation a few hours earlier.

      “You’ve worked so hard this week,” Carrie says. “We couldn’t have got the Harrington account without you, Jillian. There’ll be a bonus on your next paycheck.”

      “Thanks.” I feel the tired, satisfied glow of a job well done. Our team of architects and designers has put in long hours for the last several days, designing a restoration and renovation project to turn a run-down historic hotel into a luxury one. Harrington Hotels operates more than two dozen prestigious hotels situated all around the world, and an hour ago they notified Carrie that our firm had won the contract for the latest gem in their multinational crown.

      “I’m heading home to see if my husband and kids still recognize me,” Carrie says with a grin. “I hope you have something special planned to reward yourself. Like, having a drink with Sandro? I overheard him say he was going to ask you.”

      “He did, but I said no.” With sincere regret. That man is so seriously hot.

      “What are you thinking? That’s one awesome guy, he’s single, and you’ve been eying him all week.”

      Crap. Has my interest been that apparent? I try so damn hard to be professional, but it’s impossible to keep my eyes off Sandro Rodriguez.

      Yeah, he’s as awesome as Carrie says, and then some. Sharp, insightful, with a wry sense of humor, plus he looks more like the soccer player he once was than the vice president of public relations for Harrington. Picture a young Antonio Banderas: a lean, muscular frame, wavy black hair that’s always a little tousled, and dark eyes and a flashing smile that often hold a hint of mischief. Add in a trace of a Spanish accent that makes his perfect English sound utterly charming.

      End result, he’s one of those guys men like and women drool over. I haven’t the slightest doubt he’s a killer when it comes to PR.

      And when it comes to sex.

      Every time I look at the man, all my erogenous zones zap to alert status. It’s so bad that I’ve taken to wearing padded bras so no one will notice when my nipples bead up.

      The thought of Sandro’s mobile, sensual lips sucking my nipple makes my breath quicken.

      Firmly I tell Carrie, and myself, “We’re going to be working with him. You know I steer clear of getting involved with colleagues.” I learned that lesson when I dated a coworker at my previous job and he told the entire office I was some kind of sex maniac.

      Which I’m not. I just happen to really, really love sex.

      And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. But it’s not information I care to have spread around my workplace. At work, I want to be respected for my skills, not ogled, gossiped about and lusted after.

      “Oh, come on,” Carrie says, “everyone gets involved with colleagues. You work so hard, where else can you possibly meet someone other than—” She breaks off, eyes widening. Her brows draw together the way they do when an idea is germinating.

      “Erotique,” she says.

      “What?”

      “You deserve a special night. I’ll get you a guest pass to a private club I belong to.”

      I’m flattered. In the year and a half I’ve been working for Carrie, I’ve won her respect, and recently we’ve been moving toward friendship—going shopping or to an occasional chick flick together. “A fitness club?”

      “No. Purely social.”

      Our budding friendship hasn’t reached the stage of sharing much about our social lives, and I’ve let her believe I’m a little shy and totally devoted to my job. The truth is that while I’m definitely serious about my career, I’m not all work and no play—and when I’m in the mood for play, I don’t have a shy bone in my body. I have no problem finding clubs, bars or men.

      “Thanks,” I tell her. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll go home and have a glass of wine and a nice long bubble bath. There’s a novel I’ve been dying to read.” I’m telling the truth; it’s been a tiring week and tonight I’d rather relax and masturbate than go to the effort of finding a man. Besides, what man could measure up to Sandro?

      “A sexy novel?”

      Her eyes are twinkling, so I don’t feel guilty about confessing that I’m not reading pretentious literature. “Yeah, it’s on the spicy side.” Spicy is an understatement. Sarah’s Seduction is by Desirée—yes, just Desirée, with no surname—who writes very erotic historical romance novels. On the nights I choose to stay in, Desirée has given me some pretty fine orgasms. Better ones, actually, than some men have.

      Desirée understands sensuality. Foreplay. Anticipation. The slow build of arousal, that delicious aching need to come…but not quite yet because, damn, it feels so good just like this.

      In fact, remembering some of the scenes she’s written is turning me on.

      “Rather than read about it,” Carrie says, calling my attention back to her, “why not live your own sexy story?”

      I do, and often. But not when I’m tired and the only man who could tempt me is the one man I’ve decided it’s wiser not to see. “Some other night,” I hedge.

      “No, tonight.” Carrie’s using her I’m-the-boss-and-I’ve-made-up-my-mind tone. “I’m getting you a guest pass to Erotique.”

      When Carrie’s in this mood, she expects the members of her team to fall in line. Apparently this applies to my personal life as well as my work one. I have to admit the name of the club is intriguing. “You said it’s a social club?”

      Her eyes are twinkling again. “A sex club, to be precise.”

      “A what?” I gape at her. Carrie is, as far as I know, happily married. “Um, like with strippers?”

      “There might be some on occasion. But no, it’s a club where people, in complete anonymity, go to have their sexual needs satisfied.”

      “You’re married!” The words burst out.

      Carrie’s