Scarlett’s eyes sparkle, and she laughs and banters with the others as if she’s known them her whole life. Like she belongs here.
“Wife,” I wrap my arms around her from behind, whispering in her ear. “Are ye ready to go? There’s…”
Do it, ye fecking coward.
“I want to show ye something. A place.”
Her bay blue eyes gaze up at me, trustingly. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Where are we?” she asks, looking up at the weathered stone edifice. We’ve driven through a dozen tiny streets in downtown Edinburgh, a couple of alleyways and ended here, in a discreet parking lot. There’s music echoing faintly from the darkened windows, though there’s nothing on the exterior aside from a plain, polished black door.
“Somewhere I’ve wanted to show ye,” I say, taking her hand. “Do ye trust me, wife?”
She leans closer, the mingled smell of smoke along with her vanilla scent and a sharp bite of citrus. “I shouldn’t, you know.”
“Aye, most likely,” I agree.
“You kidnapped me, made me marry you,” she points out.
“This is true.”
“You saved my life. Twice. You’re keeping me safe.” She grins wickedly. “I’ve been riding the O Train every day since we got married.”
“Also correct.” I say, stroking my hand over her throat, feeling her swallow.
“Yes,” she says. “I trust you. How could I not?”
Kissing her fiercely, I whisper, “Remember that.”
Knocking on the door, I hold up my silver skeleton key for the blonde concierge to see.
“Welcome to Elysium, Sir. Madam. Please let me know if there’s anything…” She’s tall, cadaverously thin, in a tiny silk dress with two huge round breasts that look like balloons strapped to her chest. She leans forward to give us a generous view. “Anythingwe can do to make your stay more pleasurable.”
Glancing down at Scarlett, she seems more amused than offended. “That won’t be necessary,” I say, handing the girl a stack of bills.
The hallway I lead my wife down is featureless, no pictures, painted a deep charcoal gray with ivory crown molding. There’s a series of black doors, and I open the sixteenth one.
Biting her lip, she steps through. There are two black cloaks hanging on an antique rack, one with a white satin lining, one with red. The room has a couch and dressing table with lotions and perfumes. Another door faces us on the opposite wall.
“Take your dress off, wife.”
“There’s not like a sacrificial altar at the end of this evening, right?” She stands still, letting me pull her zipper down. “We’re not going to be holding candles and chanting?”
I slide her dress off her shoulders, the silkpuddling at her feet. “Ye dinnae have to do anything we see tonight.” I strip off my jeans and sweater, pulling my cloak on before bringing her close to me again. Kissing my way down her neck, I whisper, “Or we can do all of it.”
“Oh, my god, I get it now,” she sighs. “Why am I not surprised?” She’s being brave, standing there, so pretty in her black lace underwear, her flaming hair tumbling down her back.
“What do ye need, Little Cinder?”
Her pupils flare in her eyes, she sucks in a deep breath. “A safe word?”
“Have ye ever been in a club like this before?” My fingertips feel her throat bob before she swallows back a gulp.
“I think you already know the answer to that,” she says, then puts her chin up defiantly. “But I’ve read a lot of books. I know things.”
I smother my amusement; she would not appreciate it. “Your safe word is ‘fever.’ Ye can stop me at any time by saying the word. We can stop and talk about it, we can slow down, we can end it.” Her pretty breasts are rising and falling as she breathes faster. “What is your safe word?”
“Fever,” she whispers.
