He pulls back, his gaze dark and decadent. “No one touches me but you.”
And for him, forhispleasure, Iwillget touched.
By whoever we deem worthy.
THE VULTURE
QUINTON
The crisp Decemberwind nips at us, causing our winter coats to billow as we step off the helicopter. With her arm through mine, Emery gingerly walks the frosty path toward the château. Remnants of a forgotten sunset paint the sky in hues of plum and navy, illuminating the grand staircase that leads to the imposing doors of Nuit du Péché.
Emery pauses on the final step, her breath escaping in hesitant puffs, transforming into ephemeral clouds in the frigid air.
“You’re nervous.”
“A little.” She stares at the antique brass Goddess Athena door knocker. “I don’t know why, though.”
“We can leave.” I cast her a look of understanding. “If you’re not ready.”
“No.” She shakes her head, reaching for the knocker. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
The wooden doors vibrate as Emery makes her choice. Within seconds, the doors open and deviant ambiance spillsonto us in a wave of humid heat and sinful chatter. At the entrance stands a dapper young man clad in a customized NDP suit, his gloved hand extended as he politely requests our invitational keys. I hand over the keys with a nod. Once the transaction is complete and our coats are removed, Emery step over the threshold first and enters a world I believe she’s always dreamed of living in.
“Holy shit…” she breathes, eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them before as we enter the main room. Her gaze dances along the mounds of panting bodies, dozens of silken beds, fur-draped chaises, and secretive alcoves.
There is nothing holy about the scene that surrounds us. It’s primal. As if we’re privy to the deepest desires of sinful souls. Hundreds of souls. Each one desperate to live out their wildest fantasies. Each one starving for a moment of complete freedom.
“Who are all these people?” Emery asks, bewildered at the sheer volume of bodies in the château.
“It’s a rather anonymous function,” I say. “Unless you’re a public figure and easily recognizable, but even then, discretion is expected.”
Her attention is caught by an animated ménage à trois in the corner of the grand room. “Isn’t that the Dutchess of?—”
“Shh…” I hush her, giving a nod of disapproval. “Not out loud. In here, she’s just a random body. That’s all.”
She blinks and then walks silently farther into the room. While Emery surveys the moaning sights, I simply stare at her, drinking in her beauty. Her lips are painted red tonight, like blood, like the thing that keeps my heart beating, alive. My gaze flicks down to her chest, the silk robe unraveling as she slowly moves deeper into the epicenter of the chaos.
Despite the balmy heat that permeates the room, her nipples harden, her breasts spilling through the tight hem of her lacelingerie.Fuck. My cock twitches against the ring, and I can’t wait to watch her get devoured.
Each pile of glistening flesh we pass takes a moment to stare at her, dozens of hungry eyes flicking toward us. It’s because they can smell it on her. The inexperience. The innocence. And she knows it too. She knows they want to ruin her. And she’ll let them.
Emery grabs my forearm, tugging at it as she stops walking, her heady gaze fixed on a party of three women twisted in a delectable human pretzel. She licks her lips, head tilting as she watches their movements, their fingers, their tongues.
“Does that intrigue you, darling?”
“A little,” she whispers, shifting her weight from heel to heel. “They’re all very…” She swallows. “Pretty.”
“Why don’t you go say hello?” I suggest, giving her an encouraging smile. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the company.” I feather a finger down the outline of her face, arching over. “You’re also very pretty.”
Emery shivers under my touch but before she can respond, the women slow their ministrations as if they can feel her unyielding, envious stare. One head emerges at the scent of new prey. Emery lets out a tiny gasp as the woman wipes the corner of her mouth, glances down at her playmates, and then stands up. As the red-haired woman approaches us, her eyes meeting mine briefly, I can see the invitation in her gaze.
Emery's breath quickens, fear and excitement radiating off her soft skin.
She turns to me, slightly nervous and unsure. Her voice quivers as she whispers, “She’s coming over. What do I do?”
“Whatever you want to do.”
“Bonsoir,” the woman says, her hair tangled and wild. She flicks her brown eyes at me. “Peut-on?”
