by Jenn Stark
One Wilde Night
A Novella of Immortal Vegas
Jenn Stark
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Stark
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 1943768005
ISBN-13: 978-1-943768004
Final cover art by Liz Bemis, Bemis Promotions
Photography by Gene Mollica
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in encouraging piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase/Download only authorized editions.
Chapter One
No one could say I didn’t have enough skin in the game. Not for this job.
I inched forward, barely squeezing between two bare-assed naked women. They writhed in vigorous counterpoint to the pounding music, D cups smacking me full in the face. Thanks mostly to the heavy oil I’d slathered on myself from neck to toe, I wriggled my own naked body free of their Twister competition to claim exactly one square foot of open space in the sub-basement rumpus room.
Finally. Oxygen.
The throng of nude humanity spun out in all directions around me, a mosh pit of groaning decadence. All of them were dancing. Some of them were fornicating. And one of them was damned well thinking she should have asked for more money for this assignment.
“Mmm, Deusa.” The thickly-accented Portuguese word purred past my ear. Heavy hands latched onto my shoulders and with a quick jerk, I was pulled ass to groin against a particularly enthusiastic admirer. Again with the help of my oil, I turned in the guy’s embrace and smiled as wide as I could, my gaze raking over his face.
Nope, not my target.
Nope, not anyone I recognized from the trade.
I pursed my lips into a kiss, then brought down my heel hard on the guy’s instep, gut-punching him a little lower than his gut. He fell back, releasing me with a high-pitched squeak of pain. Turning back around, I plunged deeper into the crowd, desperate to get to the center of Crazytown before I got trapped again.
The music blasted with the interminable samba strains that had pretty much been encoded into my DNA over the past four days. It was Carnival week in Rio de Janeiro. Ordinarily, that would find me with my fingers wrapped around a beer at a local block party, dancing in the street and eventually passed out on some beach south of the city.
Not this year.
Not when there was fifty grand at stake for a chunk of jadestone now only twenty feet away from me.
I slithered between two heavily oiled male backs, one boasting some really impressive ink. Etched in vibrant greens, blacks, oranges, blues and golds, a rugged sun god looked right at home between a pair of the most amazing shoulders I’d seen in recent memory. The god presided over the flowing waters of the Amazon, which in turn cascaded down to an exceptionally fine ass. An ass currently twitching against my—
“Is that truly your target here, Miss Wilde?”
I popped into another pocket of air, turning fast to defend myself. But there was no one leaning into me, whispering in my ear. There was no one paying attention to me at all.
The voice had been in my head.
Again.
“You’re getting annoying.” It took a pretty amped-up psychic to play phone-a-friend with my mental receptors, but there were plenty of high-level Connecteds who could do it when I was distracted. Like right now, for example.
I’d picked up the anonymous psychic passenger the first night after I’d landed in Rio, and hadn’t been amused that he’d known my name, especially since I had yet to figure out his. After his initial contact, however, he’d gone silent long enough that I thought he’d slunk off to haunt someone else’s brain. Him showing up tonight was crappy timing, but I couldn’t spare the mental energy to repair the shields at the moment. The dilithium crystals would have to hold.
I turned back toward the center of the room. For good luck, I patted the one thing I was wearing, a thick frog-shaped pendant on a leather cord, made to order for tonight’s assignment. Almost all the women in the room wore a similar amulet, and nothing else. In my case, though, a second leather cord held my ponytail. A tug confirmed it remained in place.
I pushed forward again.
The lights of the enormous subterranean chamber shifted, pointing the way to my target. On a small stage in the center of the room, an exquisite woman stood in the middle of three highly dedicated attendants, all of them male, all of them built like Mack trucks.
I’d been following Fernanda Rossi for the past three days since I’d locked on to her at the Magic Ball at the Copacabana. To the adoring public, she was simply one of this year’s most beautiful and vivacious Carnival princesses. According to my client, she was also a priestess in the Cult of Icamiabas.
Based on what I was seeing, my client was right on the money.
Standing on her dais, Fernanda looked every inch the dominant Amazonian high priestess. And tonight was her night to shine.
Her and her necklace of supreme power. Or whatever it was.
A carved jadestone frog dangled from a thin leather cord from Fernanda’s neck. That frog was currently having the time of its life bouncing around on the woman’s impressive assets as she was alternately kneaded and stroked and kissed and licked and a few other things I needed to remember for later.
Granted, there were approximately seventeen million similar frog charms being sold in the streets of Rio this very night. But this one, my client had insisted, was different. This one contained powers far beyond the norm. Powers of fertility, yes—hence the sexapalooza going on around me. But also transcendent powers of luck, health, abundance, and long life. And maybe even a set of steak knives.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t waltz into a religious cult’s crib and take their prize, at least not while they were still worshipping it. Most of the relics I secured for interested buyers were from long-dead tribes or forgotten family vaults. However, this particular strain of devotees rubbed me the wrong way. According to my client and verified through my Connected buddies south of the equator, these guys weren’t just a Brazilian sex club rocking it old-school. They demanded sacrifices too. Generally big brawny male ones.
Being a fan of big brawny males, that didn’t sit right with me. The world didn’t have enough of those as it was.
Adding to my motivation, my client had already transferred two-thirds of my fee into my bank account, not twenty-four hours before the start of Carnival. I needed that money, badly.
So I was going to nail this payday.
I pressed forward through the crowd, trying to keep my chin up, my focus on the prize and not on the naked rave around me.
Fernanda had been criminally easy to track, at least. Her samba “school,” a loose group of neighborhood residents who competed in the Samba Parade at Carnival, had been putting their lovely princess on display across the city in ever more flamboyant costumes. Each appearance had been tailor-made to build buzz for their triumphant parade through the Sambadrome later tonight, when Fernanda would be dancing her ass off in an elaborate headdress and very little else. She’d rolled out her particular version of the samba at every promotional stop throughout the city, like a mama showing off a jiggly baby. It made me exhausted to watch her, but I’d stuck to her like white on snow.
And when she wasn’t on some stage shimmying her tan off, I’d been able to peg
her location with a few well-chosen Tarot cards.
Tonight in particular, my cards had been straightforward and clear: The Tarot trump Justice had led me to a coffee shop next to the old capital district, the Fool had taken me to the Municipal Theatre, which was playing Parsifal—and the Devil had helped me find this hellhole, O Diabo. Where I’d struck pay dirt.
The one card that hadn’t been played out in an obvious way was the Magician. Since the “finding” part of this little adventure was all but over, however, I really hoped it meant I was performing at the top of my game.
The music jumped again. Here we go.
I’d make the switch in the next few minutes, hole up for the night, then meet my client as planned tomorrow morning. Simple. Clean. Easy.
A new sound brought my head up with a snap. Either Fernanda was miked up or the acoustics in the room were unreal, because her multisyllabic moans were the stuff of legend. Bracing herself on the shoulders of one pair of men while another grabbed her hips, the princess gave a five-star shudder, then cried out with pure, undiluted, triple-X-rated pleasure. Loudly. And at length.
The crowd around me answered back with a roar of its own.
Clearly, it was party time.
Chapter Two
Everyone surged forward toward the center dais, which was impressive, given the multitasking going on. The dancing gave way to a full-on orgy, in multiples of two, three, and even more. Based on an unofficial survey, I seemed to be the only one in the chamber with all my orifices unclaimed.
In the center of the room, Fernanda held the stone frog aloft and wailed with authoritative gusto. I was mid-eyeroll when a wave of energy blasted me back a full three feet, and suddenly all I wanted to do was…
Uh-oh.
I struggled to retain my focus, but it was like holding onto a dandelion in a tornado. An overwhelming need to dive onto every able-bodied man in the room consumed me, head to toe. I needed someone’s—anyone’s—hands on me, his body surrounding me, his mouth—
“Resist it.”
Not him again. “I’m busy here,” I practically moaned, swaying toward the closest pair of groping hands.
The voice in my head persisted. “It’s a spell. Only a spell. You can resist it.”
But the voice was wrong. Dead wrong. Everything was spinning in my mind, whirling faster and faster. I couldn’t stem the rushing tide of desire, I couldn’t even breathe right anymore. A rage of lust so strong it seemed almost a living thing coursed through me, demanding to be satisfied. Immediately. Like now, already.
“Resist—”
“Well, help me, dammit!” I bit out. “I can’t do it alone!”
A groan of what sounded like real pain shuddered through my mind, but this time it was accompanied by a sensation of hands cupping my breasts, pulling me up against a broad chest. I gaped down, trying to understand what was happening, but nothing was there except the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and—
I sucked in a breath as the massage turned insistent, and heat radiated through me. How long had it been since I’d been touched? Besides when I’d gotten stuck in that elevator with those guys from Cirque du Soleil?
“What—what are you doing?” I gasped.
“Keeping you safe until you break through the spell. Break through it now, if you would.”
I didn’t want to break through the spell, though. Not for just this hot second, when all the world around me vibrated with need, with want. My eyes drifted shut as I inhaled the heady spices, and I imagined the guy who I was pretty sure belonged to that voice, those hands. Rich, bronze skin, sleek dark hair, golden eyes. It was always the same picture, and the picture was good.
My imaginary friend had shown up in my dreams only once, but it had been the perfect tease—leaving me wanting more, craving the touch, the whisper, the kiss that wasn’t real because it was in my head and not my bed. The deliciously perfect lover, minus the pillow talk.
But this wasn’t a dream. This was really happening.
Though my eyes reported no one in my peripheral vision, a man’s teeth bit down on my shoulder, like a wolf pinning its prey. I tried to maintain my dignity, but was no denying the groan of need that built up somewhere near my core and gained in intensity as it moved up my body. My head spun and my senses lit on fire as the very large, very male hands abandoned my breasts to skim down my torso, locking on my hips for a tantalizing second until the pressure continued, sliding down, down—
“Princesa! Princesa!”
The carnal tsunami ceased as suddenly as it started, and the sensual cocoon I’d been wrapped in unraveled just as fast. I shuddered like a dog bursting out of cold water, gasping with reaction. I felt the psychic touch ease back, replaced by words that were far too crisp and certain.
“The spell has been interrupted. You’ll be safe now.” Pause. “However, Miss Wilde, when you do want me—truly want me of your own free will…I’ll be waiting for you.”
“But who—” A sudden rise in the volume of chanting broke through my daze the rest of the way, and I twisted sideways as the crowd lurched again toward the dais. My brain came back online barely in time to avoid me face-planting amid a forest of stomping feet.
As it was, I was caught up in a tide of humanity, their desire a living thing. Thankfully, my focus was stronger now, sharper, which probably had something to do with the elbow in my left kidney and the meat hook that had clamped down on my upper arm.
“Cadela,” growled a familiar voice—my admirer from several rows back. I decided I liked “Deusa” a lot better. I turned to tell him so, bending my fingers into a tight, double-knuckled battering ram and punching him in the throat.
Down he went, a half-dozen of eager, sex-starved women piling on.
That should keep him busy for a while.
The damage had been done, though. There were now too many people between me and Fernanda. The pulsing crowd carried me past stage right, where two massive guards blocked the way with crossed spears. Still, this was the only path Fernanda could take, so all was not lost. She’d have to head this way with her sacrificial boy-toys to reach the ceremonial bed. Tonight, through Fernanda’s carnal and fatal offering while she wore the Trinket of Awesome Power, a whole new set of amulets would be consecrated, and the cycle would start all over again.
Unless I got to her first.
I scanned the room again, then halted abruptly, my eyes narrowing. Apparently, I wasn’t the only wallflower at the dance after all.
Nigel Friedman stood naked and leaner than I remembered him, lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, ever so slightly poleaxed at the sheer immensity of skin on display. He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he particularly short. He wasn’t muscle-bound but neither was he soft. He was the kind of man you might miss in a crowd, mainly because that’s what he wanted you to do. His blond hair was buzz cut and his jaw was looking extra-chiselly this evening, but his blue eyes were the most arresting thing about him—constantly shifting, constantly on alert.
Now that sharp gaze was fixed on something deeper in the crowd, and I followed his sightline until I saw what held his attention. A grim-faced woman was on the move, not appearing at all interested in the carnal delights she was being offered left and right. She was small-bodied but fit, and she was completely focused on Fernanda.
I didn’t know her, but she looked vaguely Russian, with coal-black, blunt cut hair, dark eyes, and a round, pale face dominated by heavy lips. Great. Russians were always a pain in the ass.
And this was my orgy, dammit. I got here first.
Fernanda chose that moment to issue another ululating howl that sounded completely unlike the pretty, vivacious Carnival princess she’d been for the past week. Instead, she was transforming more and more into an Icamiaban high priestess, her body flexed and proudly on display, her adoring men falling back to stare at her like slack-jawed yokels. She shoved her fist toward the ceiling and spoke a stream of fluent Portuguese, to which I joyfully responded along with the rest of the
crowd, something like “Keyaramus!” Which didn’t sound at all like “yes”, but who was I to judge? Beyond three or four emergency words like “mojito,” I sucked at languages.
The word appeared to be some sort of signal, however, because the crowd reacted again, reaching up with eager hands. Fernanda and her male entourage threw themselves into the throng. The Queen of the Naked Mosh Pit, she was handed over one admirer at a time, heading for the door the guards were barring.
I could work with that.
Taking up my position, I shoved one slender woman out of my way then struck out with my heel at a hard angle, connecting with the man directly in front of me. He buckled with a satisfying scream.
“Keyaramus!” I shouted again as I took out the guy to my left as well. He was no more than eighteen and certainly not old enough to be invited to an orgy, even in Brazil. I almost felt bad when he went down amidst a squeal of excited feminine voices, but I figured he’d rally. Then there was one more…
With five sets of arms suddenly down to two, the knot of mosh pitters in front of me faltered. Suddenly, Fernanda was there, toppling into my arms. Our mutually oiled-up bodies created a tableau out of Dante’s inferno, with everyone grabbing at her face, her arms, her hair, her breasts.
Including me. But I had a slightly different end game in mind.
Fernanda’s cry of ecstasy became one of alarm as she hit the floor. The two giant guards bolted forward and thrust their spears high, roaring as if they’d been waiting to do it their whole lives. People shrieked but refused to fall back as Fernanda thrashed around. Her long hair tangled around her, blinding and binding her.
I yanked my amulet from my neck and slid the catch, baring the sharp blade at the base of the frog. A slice, a swipe, and a sheathing of the blade later, I seized hold of Fernanda’s arm and pulled her to her feet. She swept aside her hair and patted her chest, panting. I placed my own jade amulet into her hand. Glassy-eyed, she clutched the stone, and her lips curved for just a few precious seconds.
