The terrace held two bars opposite one another, several sets of seating areas, and very well-dressed people. Across from the entrance, a curling balustrade of wrought iron on pitch black marble speckled faintly with gold swept down, and I leaned over the railing nearest me to look down below. The sculpture touched down in the middle of a stage; the stage itself was surrounded by the same dark wood I'd crossed to enter the club. Candles burned in elaborate dark iron casings; beautiful women walked by, carrying trays of drinks. They wore black eye masks, a dark blood red rippling silk cloth banded around their breasts, a tightly bound black skirt of black lace wound round their hips that reached their knees, and wicked blood red heels. They each wore a gold flower pinned to their bound hair.

I could see another couple of bars, and the sound in the place was strangely controlled; while I knew there were a lot of people, and the club was open to the sky, people weren't raucous, and instead spoke intimately to one another.

The woman in white leaned into me from behind, her hand on my hip, and spoke into my ear. “We have people to meet. But we'll see each other again, I'm sure.”

Her hand slid away in a silky goodbye as she and her partner glided away, without a glance back.

“Would you like a dance?” A man in black slacks with a black eye mask on approached me, his hand extended. His full mouth hung pouting from below it, and I smiled and shook my head; he bowed slightly and backed away and turned to approach a group of women. They eyed him, laughed to each other lightly with knowing glances, and drew him into their circle. I headed for the stairs, eyes scanning the level below as I descended.

Evan stood alone, sipping on a glass of wine and watching the stage; on the stage, I realized what I hadn't seen before – a woman was dancing, theatrically and sexually, her breasts exposed, her face in the same mask as the others. She wore a black bikini bottom and moved like a nymph through and around the sculpture, long legs cutting serenely between the thrusting curves of the metal.

A man appeared through the sculpture's rigid leaves and secrets and stalked her in a rhythm of predatory grace; I stopped on the stairs, watching.

He pinned her down on a stone bench crawling with ivy, and her bare feet arched, gripping the installation of wrought iron above her. She looked as if she'd be impaled on it, or trapped in it, as it hung down over her, bleak and erotic. The man bent his head and tugged aside her bikini bottom, diving down with his face as though eating her sex.

Groin tight, I watched as the woman rolled like water beneath him, legs striking poses against the ground and fallen leaves, landing around his thighs, his shoulders, his back, to rise up and shudder, before turning in his arms and screaming out in ecstasy. Suddenly, the light in the room dimmed, and everything went dark.

I blinked, waiting. The room stayed dark. I thought I saw the gleam of an exit sign in the shadowy distance, and that was it. Next to me, I felt air shift by me on the steps, and a woman sigh.

“I don't think I can wait, Paul,” she whispered fretfully, and a man answered her, their feet making soft scuffles on the marble.

“I'll be inside you in a minute,” was his soft reply, and I reached out, to find only empty space.

Moving tentatively forward, I held on to the railing, easing my way down for what felt like forever. I could still hear people at the bar, but their speech was severely lowered, as if to avoid breaking the mood. I held still, breathing in, and realized I could hear soft sounds – a woman gasping, a man groaning, a strange, wet, rhythmic smacking. My eyes widened.

I started making out shapes, but they remained blurry lumps, but lumps that gave way eagerly to my suspicions. Bodies thrust, reached, squatted and knelt, sliding like horny specters accosting sleeping lovers in the dark.

The one shape I stared at the hardest stood where I remembered Mr. Carlisle standing, with his glass of wine. I couldn't tell if he still held it, but he seemed to be where I remembered.

Slowly, I eased forward, hands out to avoid danger. I bumped into someone's long hair, and slid my hand down to find a delicate breast; the owner squeezed my hand to her, and I bent and found her nipple with a rough lick; she laughed, delighted, and I slipped away.

I stepped on what felt like clothing; I dipped my fingers accidentally into someone's drink and sniffed them, found the scent of amaretto, and licked the alcohol away.

When I reached his shadow, I stepped behind him, and leaned up, using my hand to guide me along his forearm, to his bicep, and finally the line of his jaw, turning him to me.

“What do you think you're doing?” He asked, voice flat, his body not moving. This was his voice. The voice that humiliated his wife. The one that didn't seem to have emotion. I wondered what he sounded like when angry, or really, truly, aroused. What I'd seen him do with his wife wasn't real, it was basic and biological. It didn't matter to him.

I smiled into his ear, smelling him up close for the first time. He smelled spicy, like something exotic, and the heat of him beneath my lips seemed almost feverish, but there wasn't an ounce of sweat on him.

“Introducing myself.” He didn't answer, and I felt him lean away for a moment. I heard the clink of his glass, settling. Then he returned to standing. I flicked his ear with my tongue. He didn't move.

“There are plenty of other parties for you to join. I'm not interested,” he finally said. He was that proud. I laughed in his ear, and captured his ear lobe. He stiffened, and I bit slightly harder, before releasing the flesh. He tasted as good as he smelled, and with all the pheromones ricocheting around us, it only served to hurry my arousal.

“Oh, but I am, Mr. Carlisle. In you.” I stood still, waiting for him to answer. He held out, but eventually caved.

“What for?”

“Everything. Nothing.” I felt his jaw tighten and slid my hand to his shoulder, squeezing.

“I believe I've made myself clear.”

My voice went from promising to hard. “And I haven't .”

Suddenly he shifted in the blackness, hands tight on my upper arms, squeezing hard. He held me and leaned in, so that I felt his chest against mine, and I pushed my chest against his, enjoying the roughness of him beneath all that silky suit.

“Say what you want to say and leave.”

“I've learned how you do business in Boston and I'd like to see how you do business in Miami .”

“Get to the point.”

“I could turn you in. Trading favors to avoid litigation. Dirty little parlor games, convenient settlements.” I gave a gentle tsking noise. “God knows what you do out here. Is this club yours? Kinky.”

He shook me once, his voice dark and low, and I widened my eyes trying to gain more light, wishing I could see him. I felt wild again, like I had when threatening his wife, but this time things were more uncertain, and I wasn't necessarily in control.

“You came here to blackmail me?”

“I'm here to barter with you.”

“You don't have any proof.” His voice was cold.

“How the hell would you know?”

His grip tightened, sure to leave bruises. It felt good, and my back arched, my chest pressing harder against his.

“A game, then. For what stakes?” He said it flatly, but at least he said it.

I shrugged, before pulling backward until he released me. “Keep your enemies close, Mr. Carlisle. I want into this business of yours.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“I could destroy Boston for you. Maybe even everything, including your happy little marriage.” I smiled, knowing he wouldn't know just how I could destroy it. “But I'd rather know what you're up to in Miami .”

There was a long silence, and I listened to the sounds of people groaning, someone coming, a glass shattering and someone begging for God, and not necessarily from the same area.

His voice was mild when he spoke again.

“Your move,” and in it I heard a temporary acquiescence. My heart stopped.

“Good boy.” And with that, I walked away, leaving him standing in the darkness surrounded by the sound of sex.

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