Poisonous Kiss: Chapter 4

When I was ten, my dad took me to see the Grand Canyon. It had always been on his “bucket list”, and I suppose on mine, too, after hearing him talk about it so much. I’d seen pictures, of course. But the Grand Canyon is one of those places where photos just don’t do it justice. It’s not until you’re standing on the very edge, staring out at the sheer breathtaking magnitude of it with your breath caught in your throat, that it fully hits you.

Club Venom is a lot like that.

I’d heard about Venom, in whispers and rumors. Eloise had blushingly told me about the decadence of the place, and even Taylor had turned a little pink while trying to prepare me for my first meeting here.

But, like the Grand Canyon, stories don’t cut it.

Calling it a “sex club” doesn’t do it justice. Words like “exclusive” or “palace of sin” don’t really paint a full picture, either.

Because Venom doesn’t feel like a nightclub at all. It feels like you’re stepping into another world.

You don’t have to be involved in the criminal underworld to hang out here. But that’s certainly Venom’s target clientele: the rich, powerful, dark, and deviant of New York City. Venom is where they come to play.

It’s like a nightclub meets kink club meets Caligula. The matte black and gold Venetian carnival masks are mandatory. Names are heavily discouraged.

Fantasy, however, is very much encouraged.

Right now, I feel like I’m in the middle of some otherworldly, erotic fantasy.

It’s probably the orgy going down…pardon the pun…about thirty feet away that sets the tone.

The main lounge area of Venom, where I’m currently sitting waiting for Drazen Krylov, is a large, ornate but tasteful room with low, sexy lighting, full of sumptuous deep reds, matte blacks, and gold accents. Gilded chandeliers hang from gorgeous inlaid ceilings. Dark, sultry techno music pumps through hidden speakers.

Around the perimeter are scattered couches and chairs for guests, and a couple of bars. Masked waitstaff weave discreetly in and out of your peripheral vision with trays of champagne. The club’s blood-red emblem of a viper leers from one of the matte black walls.

But…yeah. It’s the middle of the room that has my and pretty much everyone else’s attention.

I mean, it’s sort of hard to ignore.

The first time I walked in here with Taylor, I almost had a heart attack when various guests started disrobing and moving to the couches and beds in the middle of the lounge area. I’d love to say I’m totally cool with it this time, but that would be a lie.

The truth is, it’s taking everything I have not to stare with my jaw on the ground. And I’m epically failing at it.

But cut me some slack here.

On the main bed in the middle of the room, a redhead writhes wildly as two muscled and tattooed men devour her. One of them has his lips wrapped around one of her nipples, and the other has her legs shoved up high and wide apart, his mouth buried between them.

My face turns crimson as I watch the man at her breasts move away, fisting his thick cock before kneeling next to her head. She twists, and I suck in my breath as her mouth slides over his crown.

The other man moves up between her legs, throwing them over his muscled shoulders before he sinks his dick into her pussy.

Welcome to Club Venom. May I take your order?

The wildest part is, the threesome isn’t even the craziest thing on display right now. Next to them, on the very same bed, three women moan as they take turns swallowing the swollen cock of a huge guy with Russian Bratva ink. On one of the couches next to the bed, a gorgeous dark-skinned woman bounces on the cock of a muscled man with gorgeous tattoos. As I watch, my jaw drops a little more when a second man moves up behind her, spreads her cheeks, and eases his lubed dick into her asshole.

Holy fuck.

Blushing fiercely, I turn away and awkwardly ask the bartender at the bar I’m sitting at for another glass of champagne. I don’t plan on drinking it—I mean, current activities aside, this is a business meeting. But, frankly, it’s an excuse to avert my eyes for a moment.

I thank the bartender, blushing again when I hear a particularly vocal woman shrieking wildly behind me. The rough, masculine grunts of more than one man follow, and I feel my face heat as my thighs grow slick.

“Miss?”

Startled, I whirl toward the presence behind me. The man is wearing a simple black suit and a matte black mask, signifying he’s one of the staff here.

“Yes?”

I try to smile through the blush on my face, tucking a strand of my lavender-silver wig behind my ear. Yes, the masks are a good start. But the thought of someone recognizing me here, or seeing me in court later and realizing where they’d seen me before is terrifying. So, same as the first time I came, I’m here tonight with an extra layer of anonymity in the form of the wig covering my jet-black hair.

The man dips his chin. “Mr. Krylov sends his deepest apologies. Something came up at the last minute, and he’s unable to make it to your meeting.”

Dammit.

I nod back. “Okay, thanks for the heads up.”

When he leaves, I sigh.

Well, silver lining, I’m in a pretty lousy headspace for a client meeting anyway.

I make my way past the writhing mass of humanity in the middle of the room and head for the exit. After picking my way through two smaller lounges full of sexual debauchery, I step out into the main lobby of Club Venom.

All I’m thinking about is what I heard at that lunch with Christina Daniels yesterday: Gabriel is running for some sort of political office, and he needs a fake wife. I get it—you don’t have to be a Poli Sci major to know that single people rarely win elections. They’re viewed as less trustworthy. Less able to commit to things. Flighty. Untethered.

None of those is a good look for a politician trying to get elected. So, whatever Gabriel is running for, he wants it badly enough that he’s willing to pay someone four fucking million dollars to be his wife for the cameras.

I chew on my lip, thinking that one through for the millionth time.

Showing up to those “auditions” tomorrow would be career suicide. Just being there would put me in a terrible light to the partners. I mean, I’m an equity partner now: I’m part of the firm and its image.

Prancing around an audition to be the fake wife of one of the name partners for a fee is a really bad idea.

…But so is getting decapitated.

“How was your evening, miss?”

I smile politely at the woman standing behind the concierge desk.

“Short, but enjoyable. Thanks.”

I slip off my mask and wristband, handing them to her before pulling off my wig and stuffing it into my bag that she’s just retrieved for me.

“Is there a restroom⁠—”

“Through the curtain to your right, miss. First door on the left.”

I thank her, collecting my stuff and slipping down the hall. Inside, I fire off a quick text to Taylor explaining that Drazen had to reschedule. Then I fix my hair, take a breath, and leave the bathroom.

“Good evening, Mr. Black.”

I’m just about to step out from behind the dark red velvet curtain and back into the foyer when I hear it. I stiffen, my heart leaping. I sink against the wall, my pulse thudding.

No. It can’t⁠—

“Good evening, Marissa.”

My throat closes a little.

It is.

Gabriel.

Here.

Just to make sure, I hook a finger into the edge of the curtain and peel it back an inch.

His back is to me as he talks to the concierge. But I hear that deep, velvety voice and see those broad, muscled shoulders under a Tom Ford suit every day.

Fuck. Me.

Then I shake my head. I mean, I’m here, too. It’s no big deal for Gabriel to be at Club Venom. Like me, he’s probably here for a meeting of some⁠—

“Would you like your work or play mask tonight, Mr. Black?”

What?

“Play.”

“Of course, Mr. Black. One moment, please.”

“Thank you, Marissa.”

There’s something different about him tonight. A darker edge to his voice. A tenseness in his shoulders. An energy surrounding him that isn’t usually there. I shiver, peeking through the small gap as Marissa disappears through a curtain behind her desk and reappears holding a mask.

My breath catches.

While they’re all black and gold, everyone’s mask is unique at Venom. I asked Taylor about it when I came with her before, and apparently some members have their masks tailored to their own specifications.

My eyes land on Gabriel’s as he holds it in his hands.

It’s in the shape of a devil: leering, scary. It’s also entirely matte black except for the golden horns that curve up past his hair, and golden fangs that curve dangerously down toward his jaw.

A shiver rips up my spine as I watch him slip it on.

“Your usual wristband tonight, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Marissa.”

Those bands are another facet of Club Venom: it being a kink club, the different colors signify different “interests”, so that like-minded members can find each other out there.

Taylor gave me a quick rundown when we were here last time. For instance, the white and gold one I just returned to Marissa signifies I’m just an observer.

But the red and black one I watch Gabriel slip onto his wrist has my breath catching and my pulse thudding in my ears. For all of our jokes about him being Mr. Roboto, my face suddenly sizzles as my eyes lock on the red and black wristband.

Red means sadomasochism. The black lines across it signify a Dom.

Something wicked pools in my core. Something dark and hungry gnaws at my insides.

Though I don’t really currently or historically have much of it, I consider myself, theoretically, a sex-positive person. Whatever consenting adults do behind closed doors is their own business. Kinks are kinks, and people should be able to explore them without shame.

Except I don’t exactly practice what I preach. Because I think maybe some kinks shouldn’t be explored.

Some desires shouldn’t see the light of day.

Like mine.

Especially given what happened to me all those years go.

Gabriel adjusts his mask, thanking Marissa once again before turning and striding through the doors into the belly of the beast that is Club Venom.

Here, as they say, is where two roads divide.

One road leads me out the front door, into a cab, and back to home to my apartment with the three shiny new locks on the door.

The other leads me to dark places I shouldn’t go. To secret shadows I have no business actually exploring.

You know which one wins.

Marissa smiles at me as I step out from behind the velvet curtain, slipping my wig back on and handing her my bag again.

“Change of plans,” I mumble awkwardly, my face blooming. “I think I’ll need that mask again, please.”

“Of course, miss.”

She disappears and comes back a second later holding the mask I was wearing earlier along with the gold and white observer’s wristband.

“Actually…” My face throbs, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, avoiding her eyes as I push the wristband back across the sleek top of the concierge desk. “Could I have red?”

Marissa doesn’t bat an eye. “Of course, Ms. Yamaguchi. Will that be red with black, or red with gold?”

Black lines signify a Dom. Gold ones, a sub.

“Gold,” I mumble, not looking at her.

She nods professionally, her face devoid of judgement as she opens a case and pulls out a red band with gold lines and hands it to me.

“Will there be anything else, Ms. Yamaguchi?”

I shake my head quickly. “No,” I choke, my pulse roaring in my ears as I slip the band onto my wrist, adjust my mask, and turn back toward the doors that will lead me to sin.

“Enjoy your night.”