Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I push the thoughts away. What is it about embarrassment that makes us want to dwell? To dissect? To roll in it like a puppy that’s found a bad smell?
But it seems Sabine was right about the party being set into zones. The first floor, including the outdoor patio, seems to be regular party central. Loud music, dancing, and chill-out spots where other stuff is going on, if you want to investigate. Which I do not. But for a lifestyle club, orgy, or whatever the hell this is, things are kind of tame on this level. Which leads me to believe the stuff not happening here is going on in other spaces.
Please let Sabine and Jay not be part of it.
I walk back toward the entrance hall where a staircase leads up as well as down. Decision made, I metaphorically pull up my big-girl knickers (and knot them tight) as I begin to climb with a sigh.
Bedrooms + people = people having sex.
I know this. I don’t want any part in this.
At the top, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders because, story checks out. There must be a dozen bedrooms up here, most with an open-door policy.
Yay…
I try very hard not to look like a noob—or to look at all—but I have to look, don’t I? I might miss her otherwise, say under a pile of people. Now, wouldn’t that be awkward? Hey, Sabine. I know you’re kind of busy getting busy and that your pockets are lying on the floor somewhere, but do you think you could take your mouth of that man’s penis for a minute and pass me my fucking phone?
Le sigh…
There are round beds, giant beds, platformed beds, and waterbeds. Wooden crosses and swings that aren’t meant for children. There are weird-looking stools and other apparatus and real, live people having sex on all of them. And it’s not at all titillating and don’t get me started on the bathrooms!
“Eep! Excuse et moi!” I quickly pull the door shut after seeing more than I bargained for.
“Come and join us, cheri!” one of them calls out in French. I’d like to say they’re a friendly bunch here, but…
“Non, merci!” Because three’s company doesn’t do it for me. I can’t even muster the enthusiasm for a ménage à moi these days. One good thing is the exposure seems to have inured me to the sight of flesh.
I push through a suddenly busy hallway. “Hey!” I complain to no one in particular as I spin around to see who just pinched my bum. My cheeks begin to pink. Both sets of them. I return to making my way through the crowd. No matter where you are, there’s always someone trying to push the envelope.
I come to another staircase with no rooms beyond. Bollocks. No luck on this floor. I make my way down again, then farther to where a pulsing red light flashes unnecessarily up from the basement.
Hardly subtle, I think as my heels clip-clop on the marble stairs. I’m sure even the most chaste nun would be able to work out that the basement of a sex club is the dungeon.
The sex dungeon.
Suddenly, I’m working against a tide of people flooding up the stairs, so I press my back against the wall and allow them to pass. Cheeks flushed and expression bright, some clasp hands, as others whisper sweet dirty nothings. Whatever’s going on down there has certainly… stimulated them.
I don’t like the sound of that, but I’ve got to get out of here somehow. However, as I reach the bottom, I find everything quiet. Something like relief floods my veins. And my imagination definitely got the better of me because the space isn’t exactly giving dungeon vibes.
I wander deeper into the dark room, my heels echoing against the bare stone floor. It kind of reminds me of an auditorium or maybe a theatre, given there’s a raised area at one end like a stage. But whatever made all those eyes glossy and breath short wasn’t from watching any kind of play I’ve seen before.
I squint into the darkness. Are those walls made of glass? As I draw closer, I see they are. Without thinking, I press my hand to the darkened window as I peer in.
“Got you.”
I halt—freeze—the hairs on the back of my neck standing like pins at the deep, masculine voice tinged with amusement. It’s him. Nils. My heart hammers in my ears as a soft feminine laugh follows. Oh thank God. A whoosh of my hot breath fogs the dark glass as I realize the voices are coming from behind me.
“I wasn’t running,” the owner of the laugh says in French. “Not from you.”
I fake gag even as some strange part of me startles awake. It’s not that I’m interested in him but more that she sounds so confident. A tiny spike of envy runs through me as I turn to an arc of soft, lacy light spilling across the dark stage. The pair stand in the center, locked in a passionate embrace.