“Turn around,” I command.
His erection juts out before him, bobbing a little as he revolves in a slow circle. I hold back a delighted gasp as his back comes into my view—powerful slabs of muscle, a tapered waist, and a pair of round, taut ass cheeks. His ass is what I really wanted to see. And yes, maybe I wanted to show everyone here that I, the strange offspring of the Fallon family, the one they all tend to avoid, can claim this magnificent man as my own.
Everyone in the room either wants him or wishes they could be him. But he belongs to me.
That triumphant knowledge drives everything else out of my head.
“Come here,” I order him. “Kneel.”
Beresford gets on his knees between my parted legs. His fingers slide under the blanket, along my thigh, toward my center.
This time, I’m fully engaged in what’s happening, exquisitely conscious of the approach of those thick, hot fingers. I tremble when he gets closer, and I clutch the arms of the chair as his fingertips finally touch my pussy.
No one can see exactly what he’s doing to me. I’m not exposed to any of them. But he is willingly displayed, loudly proclaiming himself my desirable and submissive servant, and I’m wet from the heady power of it. When two of his fingers plunge into my opening, I gasp quietly with the tantalizing force of the penetration.
He curls those fingers slightly, working them inside me. Then he leans down, shifts the blanket, and puts his mouth on my clit.
I slam one hand onto his head, convulsively gripping his hair. I’m skating higher now, rushing upward to the peak faster than I expected. If anything demonic is going to happen, this would be the moment for it.
But there’s nothing. No sudden burst of otherworldly color, no shiver of wings or rasp of claws.
The other sexual trysts unfold around us in a merged cloud of soft, naked hues, skin in all colors—brown, gold, black, ivory, pink—but Beresford and I are vibrantly etched in my mind, blazing with color. He’s blue and I’m scarlet, and I want to scream his name but I won’t do it in front of them.
“I’m coming,” I whisper. “Gods help me, I’m going to come.”
He thrusts faster with his curved fingers, whips his tongue against my clit, and then grinds inward, driving his mouth against me with such firm, deep pressure that the orgasm has no choice—it happens compulsively, explosively, like a match to a pool of liquor.
Beresford maintains the pressure, finishing me off. Then he quietly stands up and shows me his cock, how thick it is, how it’s straining. Veins trace along the side, and the tip oozes clear liquid. When I reach toward it, I feel the heat radiating from its length, even before my fingertips make contact.
“Don’t touch me,” he says through clenched jaws. “I’m not allowed to come.”
A woman on a couch nearby clucks her tongue. “Not allowed to come? Nonsense. Bring that beautiful cock over here. I have a place for it to go.”
Beresford ignores her and kneels for me again. He’s careful of the ankle with the brace, even when he pushes my legs farther apart. “Angle your hips upward,” he says, low. And then he’s eating me out again.
He seems fiercely determined to show everyone how much he adores the taste of me. He gobbles my pussy recklessly, messily, sometimes slurping and licking, sometimes whipping his head from side to side until I nearly scream from the overstimulation. In the middle of one of those frenzied lashings I come again, and this time I let myself vocalize, shrill moans and sharp gasps. The sounds are for him. I no longer care if other people hear them.
Right in the middle of the orgasm I look up, and that’s when I see it. A huge, flat centipede, long as my entire arm, with bioluminescent blue markings along its back and a blinking eye set in the center of each jointed section.
I whimper, terrified that the thing will drop into the center of the orgy. But as the bliss coursing through my body starts to fade, the creature slithers away across the dark ceiling anddisappears. I scan the whole area frantically, but I don’t hear scuttling feet or see any blue markings glowing in the shadows.
Reaching for Beresford, I clutch his shoulder. “Wine, please.”
“Of course.”
He covers my pussy with the blanket and rises, still naked, still erect, dripping precum onto the floor. As he returns from fetching the wine, two women try to touch him, but he avoids them. Their interference annoys me.
“I’ve had enough of the others,” I tell him between sips of my drink. “Take me back to our spot.”
He obliges, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the curtain falls, cutting us off from the rest of the party. I sit on the mattress while he remains standing, a living monument to male beauty and helpless need.
“I don’t care what you promised. I want you to come.” I reach for him, but he gently pushes my hand away.
“Tonight is about you,” he says.
“But look at it.” I lean toward his straining cock. “You poor man. You’re in agony.”
“Don’t,” he chokes out. “If you do that—”
