Page 50 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

At the top, she stops in front of a heavy door and unlocks it with a small key from her belt. She pushes it open, steps aside with a polite nod, and disappears back down the stairs without a word.

The room is smaller than I expected, intimate, almost cocoon-like. Deep burgundy walls absorb the light from a single crystal chandelier overhead. A low, wide bed dominates the center, covered in black silk sheets.

A black leather settee sits against one wall, a small table beside it holding a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket and two flutes. The air smells faintly of sandalwood.

One entire wall is covered by heavy black velvet curtains, floor to ceiling.

I turn, realizing the door is now shut. Leonid steps closer. His fingers brush my cheek, tilting my chin up so I have to meet his eyes.

“Anything you saw out there scare you enough to want to leave yet?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Surprise flickers across his face, but it’s gone in an instant. He studies me for another beat, then nods toward the settee.

“Sit.”

I do. The leather is cool against the backs of my thighs. The music from downstairs is still audible, low bass thumping through the floor, punctuated by breathy cries.

My mind spins back to the videos I watched after he first mentioned the club: couples swapping partners, groups tangled together, moans overlapping until it is impossible to tell who is coming from whom.

We never talked about rules.

I swallow. “Leonid… I don’t want to have sex with another man.” The words rush out. “Or woman. I don’t want to share you, and I don’t want to be shared.”

He goes still. Then his expression shifts to something fierce, possessive, almost feral. He closes the distance between us in one step, cups the back of my neck, and pulls me up to meet his mouth.

“I’d never share what’s mine,” he says against my lips, voice low and rough. “And you’re mine.”

Relief crashes through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.

“I don’t want to share you either,” I whisper.

He kisses me again, deeper this time. “I have no interest in any other woman, Laurel. Or man. Just you.”

I exhale shakily.

He releases me, steps to the small table, and pours champagne into both flutes. He hands me one, takes a sip from his own, eyes never leaving mine.

I glance at the curtained wall. “What’s behind there?”

He picks up a small remote from the table and presses a button.

The velvet curtains slide open, revealing what’s on the other side, and a gasp leaves my lips: “God!”

Chapter Fifteen

Laurel

Below us, in the very center of the main room, is a raised circular platform ringed in low crimson light. Over two dozen people, maybe thirty, are locked in a living, writhing orgy.

All masked. Bodies move in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, skin on skin, mouths open, moans rising like smoke.

A woman is suspended from the ceiling in black silk ropes, arms bound behind her back, legs spread wide in a harness. A man kneels between her thighs, eating her out with long, slow licks while another stands in front of her, feeding his cock into her mouth in fast, deep strokes.

Nearby, a man is locked in a pillory, head and wrists trapped, while a woman in a leather corset circles him with a flogger, trailing the tails over his back, his ass, his balls. Every strike makes him jerk, his cock hard and leaking.

Another woman is bent over a padded bench, wrists and ankles cuffed, while two men take turns, one in her mouth, one pounding into her from behind. A third woman straddles her back, riding a strap-on buried in the bound woman’s ass, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back.