Fairchild sighed. She looked left and right at Nash and Dutton, who were standing on either side of her. Then she focused her eyes on Reece again.
“Can I trust you?” she asked.
“Of course,” all three men answered in unison.
Fairchild nodded. “Remember what you told me that first time in the briefing room? About not holding anything back? I’m going to need you to do that again.”
“Anything,” said Reece. “But—”
“Listen,” Fairchild cut him off. “We can’t compete with these other teams in terms of raw talent, so we’re going to have to rely on shock value instead.”
“Shock value?”
Fairchild yanked the leather jacket off its hanger and shoved it into Reece’s hands.
“Put this on,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
CHAPTER 20
Victor Slayn leaned back into his seat and yawned.
He shifted his eyes away from the stage and gazed out over the crowd, who were watching the performance with rapt attention. Their figures were dim and indistinct in the darkness of the theater, but Slayn’s ears told him that some of them were pleasuring themselves as they watched. Meanwhile, others were engaging in more mutual forms of pleasure. The air of the theater was laced with the warm aroma of sex, and not all of it was coming from the stage.
Slayn hoped the staff gave the seats a thorough cleaning between every show. Probably not thorough enough.
Of course, he didn’t have to worry about that. He was watching from a private box at the side of the stage, and he had brought his own seating—ergonomic chairs, custom made to conform to the shape of his body. To be more precise, his bodyguards had brought them. A man of Slayn’s wealth did not trouble himself with such menial tasks as the carrying of heavy objects, though his intramuscular augmetics and hormone regimen ensured that he was able to do so, if need be.
Now his bodyguards were stationed behind him, protecting the entrance to his private box. Two more apiece were stationed at either end of the hall. No would-be assassins would be reaching him by that route. There was always the possibility of a frontal assault, but naturally Slayn had considered that too. A set of small devices attached to the inner wall of the box projected an invisible force field capable of repelling any projectiles aimed in his direction.
And, of course, he had Inga.
At the moment, the woman was positioned between his open thighs, her blonde head bobbing steadily above his lap, her wet lips sliding up and down the engorged shaft of his erection. Inga’s oral skills were not the most impressive Slayn had ever experienced—merely adequate, truth be told—and yet there was something about being serviced by such a physically imposing woman, something about having her kneel before him like a slave, that made Slayn’s cock harder than the diamonds decorating the watch on his left wrist.
Based on the way Inga was moaning down there, it sounded like she was enjoying herself even more than he was. She had a thing for powerful men. And money. Of course money. Slayn paid her well.
She dragged her mouth off him to catch her breath, and she stared up at him with piercing blue eyes. Her mouth was rimmed with saliva. It glistened in the dark.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Slayn smiled and shook his head. “Not with you, my pet.”
That wasn’t strictly true, of course. The woman did haveoneglaring deficiency, but Slayn didn’t feel like bringing that up right now. Besides, in a few days’ time, it would cease to be a problem any longer.
“It usually doesn’t take this long,” Inga said.
“I’m holding it for the finale,” said Slayn. “For the seventh team.”
Even in the dark, he could see Inga’s face color with jealousy. Though she would never say so, Slayn knew she felt threatenedby the woman he was talking about. The one from the restaurant last night. Her jealousy turned him on. It was, after all, a form of pain.
“Enough chit-chat,” he whispered coldly. “Get back to work. I want to be good and hard when the final team takes the stage.”
Inga obeyed without question, and dropped her face back onto his lap, slurping softly as she worked her mouth up and down his aching length. Slayn rested his hand atop her bobbing head and checked his watch.
Eighty-seven minutes.
It had been eighty-seven minutes since the show had begun. It was a long time to keep one’s cum inside, and Slayn was growing impatient, but he knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. The sixth team was performing now, and thankfully, their time was almost up. Theirs was an erotic aerial silks routine. The performers, one woman and three men, were suspended from hanging ribbons of fabric, spinning and swinging their bodies to and fro while they fucked in midair. There was, Slayn supposed, a certain aesthetic appeal to what they were doing, and it was undeniably impressive from an athletic perspective.
But Slayn hadn’t come to watch an acrobatics show. He’d come for sex—rough, nasty sex—and from that point of view, the performance was unutterably dull.
