She was wrong.
The huge room was set up like an arena, with a large stage in the middle and some dozen alcoves lining the perimeter. Mimicking boxes at the theatre, the nooks were sumptuously decorated in scarlet velvet fringed with gold. Their furnishings included chairs, settees, one even had an enormous bed. And what was occurring in those boxes…Bea gulped.
While some of the alcoves had curtains drawn for privacy, others were fully revealed to the rest of the room. Within those boxes, masked occupants were engaged in a variety of sexual acts. To Bea’s right, a naked woman sat on a man’s lap, her back to his chest…a position that, frankly, had never entered Bea’s imagination. The woman rode her partner enthusiastically as he fondled her bouncing breasts.
Cheeks warm, Bea slid a glance at Wick.
“That’s a rather advanced riding technique, which I’ll teach you, if you wish.” Framed by his mask, his eyes held amusement along with a spark of male heat. “Now concentrate, angel. Let’s make the rounds and see if we recognize anyone.”
They walked along the alcoves, Bea’s embarrassment growing along with an undeniable feeling of arousal. She couldn’t help but be affected by the openly fornicating couples—and several groupings that included three or more. In the next box, there was a woman with a red wig, her lips and nipples painted to match. She was kneeling on a settee, her hands gripping its carved back, as a dark-haired man inserted his shaft into her glistening slit from behind.
A blond man stood on the other side of the settee, his fist in her brassy curls as he thrust his member betwixt her cherry lips. As one man filled her from behind, the other plunged deep into her mouth. Caught between light and dark, the woman let out a moan—muffled by her mouthful of flesh—that sent a shiver down Bea’s spine.
“Don’t get any ideas.” Wick’s breath warmed her ear. “I’m not a man to share.”
“I wouldn’t want to be shared,” she whispered back.
It was the truth: the thought of any man but Wick touching her left her cold. With a flash, she realized that what aroused her wasn’t the acts themselves, but the utter lack of inhibition in the room. Of the way these people were surrendering to their darkest impulses. Letting go so completely that one wouldn’t care about the judgements of others: that one would exhibit oneself like that woman riding the man in reverse or the one with two cocks moving inside her…
Thatwas the notion that stiffened Bea’s nipples and caused her pussy to flutter.
A sudden stillness came over the room, the participants seeming to freeze in their libidinous acts, their gazes all directed to the center stage.
“You’re blocking my view, wot,” a male voice called from an alcove. “The show’s about to begin, so find a seat. Or you’re welcome to join us.”
Bea saw his eyes leering at her through his mask. Two women knelt between his legs, their mouths working on his cock and bollocks. Wick put a proprietary arm around Bea’s waist, guiding her to an unoccupied chaise longue in the next alcove.
Then he stiffened, muttering, “Hell and damnation.”
She followed the direction of his gaze: a woman dressed in a diaphanous Roman toga had entered the arena. She was leading a man…by a leash connected to his collar.Dear God. The man was tall and thin and wore no garments save for the leather harness strapped around his hips, his erect member protruding through a hole. His black leather mask molded to his sharp features, his hair—a notably unnatural black—falling over his brow. Bea could see the feverish excitement glittering in his ice-blue eyes.
“Dear heavens.” Shock percolated through her. “Is that…Reverend Wright?”
30
Once seen,there were things that couldn’t be unseen, and if some benevolent God offered to wipe Wick’s memory of the last quarter hour, he would have gladly taken the deal. The reason wasn’t because he was a prude. Nor did he judge the sexual preferences of others any more than he wanted to be judged for his.
But, Christ, he’d rather have his eyeballs poked out than to watch another minute of the Reverend Mr. Henry Wright being flogged over a whipping block. As the mistress plied her leather whip on his backside, she scolded him for being a “naughty boy” while he writhed and moaned. When she donned a harness fitted with a giant ivory dildo, Wick couldn’t help but wince.
He slid a glance over at Beatrice. She was watching with wide eyes that could have indicated fascination or horror. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t the former.
“Don’t be getting any ideas,” he said in her ear. “Of the two of us, the only one bending over is you.”
“This is all rather eye-opening.” She let out a shocked giggle. “Do you think he enjoys being flogged?”
“That’s not as unusual as you may think. There are bawdy houses specializing in flagellation: for patrons who like to whip or be whipped.”
“Really?” Her lashes fluttered in the eyeholes of her mask. “Have you been to one before?”
“It’s not my particular cup of tea.” He curled a finger under her chin. “I don’t need a whip to be in control.”
Her response—swiping her plump lips with her little pink tongue—aroused him more than all the debauchery taking place before them.
“Save that thought,” he murmured. “Wright’s bound to finish soon, no pun intended, so we best get ready to corner him.”
“While his hypocrisy is beyond galling, do you think he’s the one behind the attacks?” she asked with a frown. “According to his calendar, he was in London when Fancy was kidnapped.”
“Calendars can lie. Either way, we’ll get our answers,” Wick said grimly.
