Page 3 of Naughty November
“Glad you made it,” he said, gazing at me with genuine warmth.
He really was cute, with dimples and masses of loose brown curls falling to his ears. His hair was cut close at the back and sides. He had the Grecian features of an ancient sculpture—an aquiline nose and full lips—but his eyes were a hazel green that might have come from his Spanish side. Or not. At any rate, he was more attractive than his photo.
He seemed genuinely excited to see me, and his youthful look and fit body under the slim jeans and grey button-down attracted my appraisal. We hadn’t exchanged nudes or anything like that, another thing I liked about him. But I could see now from the way his clothesclung to him that he had a body to die for. I only hoped he wasn’t disappointed with me.
I’d worn my sexiest black jeans, a pair of shiny Chelsea boots, and a burgundy button down, untucked only because I was self-conscious of my softer belly. There had been a time when I’d been as fit as Atticus, and I still had good muscle tone in most places. Hopefully, he liked the slight lines on my face that had made their appearance over the past few years, and the fact that my short black hair was beginning to grey.
“So? What do you think?” he asked.
My mouth went dry. “I think you’re gorgeous.”
He laughed and blushed, but shook his head.
“No, I mean about the club. But thank you. And, same.” He raked his gaze down my body and it immediately responded to the heat in his eyes.
“Oh! Well, it’s very unique, that’s for sure. I had no idea it existed.” I gazed about me at the antique furniture and general ambience, and noticed several corseted young men in white bloomers and black stockings flitting around, engaging with the men at the circular tables.
“I discovered it last year. It’s a nice change from the usual places. And the straights don’t ‘get it’, so they tend to steer clear. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Nice. So no unwelcome bachelorette parties?”
He made a face. “No. Thank God.”
He shook his head and continued.
“I don’t care if a straight person wants to come to a gay bar, as long as they treat the people who are queer with respect. Sometimes they don’t.”
“Yes, I know. I suppose it’s a problem with becoming so mainstream,” I suggested, trying to keep control of my desire for this tempting man. It had been a while since a random stranger had inspired such hope in me.
“Did you want to get a drink?” Atticus asked. “There’s a table in the corner we could grab. My reservation for the Bordello is in forty-five minutes, so we have time to get acquainted.”
“That sounds great. Also, I need to speak to the bartender about themembership. I’m definitely interested,” I said, giving Atticus another hungry look. “In everything I’ve seen already.”
He laughed and turned to the imposing black man on bar duty. “Hey, Jacob. You’ve got a new convert.”
The man named Jacob smiled blithely. He wore clothes that were tailored to his muscular body and reminiscent of the early nineteenth century.
“Welcome to Maverick Molly’s,” he said, offering me his hand. “I’m Jacob Moriarty. My husband, Sebastian, and I run the place.”
“Luther Ross.” I shook his hand. “What a wonderful idea for a club,” I said, gazing at the young men in Victorian undergarments. “Those handsome servers are a nice touch, I must say.”
“Ah yes, our molly boys. They perform on stage as well.”
“You’re kidding. Like...lipsyncing to songs?” I knew that wasn’t right as soon as it was out of my mouth.
Jacob and Atticus looked at each other and smiled.
“Not exactly,” Jacob said.
“You’ll see,” Atticus added.
“Yes, I think Sebastian’s just coming along now,” Jacob said, winking at someone behind me.
I turned to see a man around my age with blond hair to the shoulders, wearing the same retro clothing as Jacob, approaching.
“Hello,” he greeted me. “New to Molly’s?”
“Yes,” I confessed. “I’m here with Atticus.”