14
Liev
I knowI’ve made a mistake the second I agree to go to the masquerade thing with Zion.
“Wait. Say that again.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Okay.” He turns and bends to look in the bathroom mirror, sliding mascara onto his long, movie-star lashes. I can tell he’s biting his tongue to keep from asking about this uncharacteristic decision. It’s a good thing, because I frankly don’t have a reply. “You wearing that?”
I look down at the clothes I barely remember putting on this morning. Jeans. T-shirt. “What?”
“Liev. This isyourcamp. Maybe try classing it up a bit.”
The idea of getting gussied up is exactly the opposite of what I want right now. Distraction. That’s all I need—something to think about other than the shit I’ve been wondering all day—like, is her hair dark like the woman in the shower? Or, hell, maybe it’s grey, maybe she’s decades older than me.
Maybe it’s time to stop thinking about it.
“At least change that.”
I blink at Zion, who’s pointing at a white plaster stain cracking on my T-shirt. Annoyed—more at myself for even bothering than at him—I stomp to my bedroom, not once looking at the untouched bed. I open a drawer and pull out the first shirt I find, throw it on, and head downstairs. “I’ll be on the porch.”
He mutters something and slowly follows, looking admittedly dramatic in tonight’s getup. Chest bare aside from a leather harness and nipple rings, he’s wearing tight, shiny vinyl pants, tied closed at the waist for easy access. In one hand, he’s got a full-coverage black mask, in the other he’s holding a slew of leather handcuffs.
“What do you need all those for?” I ask as we set off for the Sex-o-drome tent.
“I was thinking I might start a collection.”
“Of cuffs?”
He smiles at my silly question and accompanying eyeroll, hands me the cuffs, and pulls his mask on. Mine’s in my pocket. It’s a half-mask, just for show, since I’m not playing tonight.
The music’s blasting so loud, we hear it almost right away. By the time we get to the big tent, there’s no conversation to be had. Just a steady, electronic heartbeat, picking up and letting out, up and out. We push open the front curtain to see bodies everywhere. Zion immediately dives into the writhing mass.
I turn to go, but the crowd’s pushing in, making a quick exit impossible. I hate this. Too many people. It’s claustrophobic, despite the air above our heads. The hot mask doesn’t help. I use my bulk to forge a path through all the flesh, planning to make my way over to one side, where the tent’s open to the night air.
It takes forever—or, hell, maybe just a minute or two stretched out by my misery—to escape the squirming pile of dancers, past a flowing fabric curtain, and into the next area. Here, lush silks hang everywhere, creating a sort of snaky labyrinth of pseudo-intimate spaces. Scattered, low cushioned benches provide more than enough areas to get up to no good.
Which is exactly what’s happening. It smells like sex in here. Like sweat and plastic and hot, hungry bodies.
I can’t help the way my dick responds, the sudden heaviness in my balls. There’s ass-biting and cock-sucking, face-fucking and a whole slew of kinksters getting spanked. Helen would have loved this shit. She’d have been right there in the middle of it, laughing and moaning and opening her arms and legs for whatever new sensation came her way.
A bitterness coats my throat. I swallow it down and shove past another curtain, then another and another. Mirrors on the ceiling reflect the light from chandeliers, others on the wall turn the scene into something from a fun-house. I look right and stutter to a stop, confused when another masked body keeps moving. Shit, that was weird. It’s another guy in long pants, wearing a ski mask. He’s shirtless, but aside from that, he could be me. Or a taller, narrower version.
And I’m not in the full mask tonight.
Someone touches me. I scoot to the side to let them by, feeling so overwhelmed I can’t move. Fuck. I need to get out.
I fling aside another curtain, this one yellow like the ones in the showers. I’m reminded of the woman today—the moment our eyes met in the mirror. How the connection sent an unexpected zing of pleasure through me. Not wanting to scare her, I tamped it down and got out of there fast.
Across the room, someone moves quickly, almost running. It’s someone with long, dark hair flowing around their shoulders. Is it her? My mystery woman? A black tattoo curves out from her sleeve to wind around her arm. I saw that tattoo beaded with water today.
She’s gone in a flash, but that was her. Maybe. Probably. I fight the desire to chase her and concentrate instead on getting out. I turn and catch sight of another woman. Red mask. Lace cat suit. She could fit the bill. I scan her arm. No inked trail of thorns. Not my shower woman. But what about my mystery play partner?
I look back to where the first figure disappeared and consider getting closer, just to see, then catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Jesus, what am I doing? This isn’t a scene. That’snota play partner. She’s a random woman who freaked out when she saw me fixing a damn sink.
