Stacy took the four invitations from her lap. "This one's mine. Serena." She put a hand to her sequined chest. "I look like a Serena, don't you think?" Serena could do anything she wanted, she had that kind of feminine power. She flipped to the second gold-labeled envelope.
"Karina." She handed that one back to Karen. "Regina." This one to Virginia.
Virginia wrinkled her nose. "Sweetie, it reminds me a little of vagina."
Stacy smiled. "Depends on how you say it when you introduce yourself, darling." Then she got to the last envelope.
Debbie held her breath.
"Desiree."
The full name, embossed in gold, was Desiree Cartier. She held the invitation lightly in her fingers. Desiree. Desire. "I like it," she whispered. "So this is the name we give if anyone asks?"
Stacy gave her the once-over. "Everyone's going to ask. No real names, remember."
Debbie traced a finger across the raised lettering. "This place must cost a fortune to get into. You haven't asked for any money."
"The first time, you're a guest." Stacy held her gaze.
"The first time?"
"Almost everyone comes back."
Debbie felt the challenge in the statement. For a moment, she got the distinct impression that Stacy knew her entire marital history, even the months and years between love-making. She'd given herself away somehow, though she couldn't remember even hinting at her problem.
Stacy turned in her seat. "Now, we can stick together or we split off. But I think we should all meet back in the lobby at midnight." She checked her thin gold watch. "That gives us three hours."
"I'll stick with you guys," Karen said.
Virginia just smiled.
Stacy yanked on her door handle. "Well, ladies, let's see where the night leads us."
CHAPTER TWO
Leaning against a column at the top of the stairs, Stephen Knight recognized her the moment she entered. He stepped back into the shadows, concealing himself. Her website picture didn't do her justice. Not by a long shot. Her long blonde hair, teased lightly around her face, curled softly at the ends. Her black stretch-top clung to a magnificent pair of breasts, large enough to fill a man's hands, small enough to maintain their perkiness. She turned to the side, revealing peaked nipples, yet her hand shook as she handed over the invitation. That's how he wanted her, titillated but slightly uneasy. Her ass begged to be touched in that form-fitting skirt, and sheer stockings molded to sweet thighs and toned calves. In those heels, her height was perfect for a quick fuck against the wall.
Except that she was so much more than a quick fuck.
This place would give her the shock of her life. He wanted to watch every moment of her journey. He wanted to be close to her when her breath quickened and her already excited nipples turned to diamond points. He wanted to drink in the scent of her arousal, the hot musky aroma of wet woman. He wanted to see the darkening of her eyes, the involuntary clench of her thigh muscles, watch the tip of her tongue sneak out to lick suddenly dry lips. She'd drink champagne, he knew. The stuff flowed freely at the club. The taste of it, the bubbles tickling the back of her throat as she swallowed, the headiness as the sparkling wine reached her bloodstream, would drive her arousal higher.
Then he'd reveal himself to her. He would touch her if she allowed, kiss those luscious lips, skim his fingers over irresistible nipples; then cup her bottom in his hands. If not tonight, another night. He'd wait as many nights as he had to.
There were things he knew from her emails, her enthusiasm over the custom stained glass orders he'd steered her way. Her creative mind, her sense of color and form, her ability to read people, to figure out what they wanted when they didn't even know themselves, her sensitivity. And her need for praise. He could almost picture her self-respect grow when he marveled at her work, almost as if she didn't believe the piece was good until he told her.
They'd only worked together, online, a few months, but he'd learned to read her moods. He sensed when she was down, more and more often of late, the tone of her e-mails more curt, sometimes wistful, and in the last weeks, almost despondent. He read her unhappiness between the lines of everything she wrote to him, even though their emails certainly couldn't be called personal. At first, she'd always politely asked how he was, chatted about work, a new project she'd envisioned; then their business. Lately, he'd sensed her creativity drying up along with her ability to make small talk. She no longer even responded to his heartfelt compliments about her talent, as if she'd completely lost the belief in herself that he'd helped her build over the last few months.
There were, of course, the more personal things Stacy had told him. Because her friend was tight-lipped about her emotions, Stacy had learned more from what Debbie didn't say rather than from what she did, and from her sudden silences when her girlfriends talked about their latest conquests or the previous week's hot date. In the middle of a glass of wine and a juicy description of hot sex, moisture might build in her eyes. She'd even had a small blow-out with one of the girls over something as simple as paperback romances, which, according to her, were nothing more than fluffy fantasies where men actually wanted their middle-aged wives instead of the hot babe walking down the street.
It didn't take a brain surgeon to figure out that Debbie Carter badly needed some loving. It didn't take her manicurist to tell him that Debbie's husband wasn't up to the task. He was probably out porking the hot babe across the street instead of making love to the hot woman occupying the opposite side of his bed.
Christ, if he was doing that, her husband was a goddamn idiot. If he was, he didn't deserve the gorgeous woman he was married to.
Stephen intended to show her that, while proving to her that she was beautiful, desirable, and everything he'd ever wanted.
* * * *
Marble covered the lobby floor, though it wasn't like any lobby she'd ever seen, more like the formal entry hall of a grand home, complete with ceiling chandelier, long curving stairway, and Greek columns. It was empty except for their hostess, though music floated softly through double doors on either side of the hall. Somehow, she'd expected rampant activity. This was ... classy.
A waiter appeared with a tray of champagne flutes.
The rules buzzed in her head as she sipped champagne. Don't touch unless invited. Don't accept unless you want to. And the condom command several times over. Black-suited attendants, primarily male, located themselves at strategic locations. If anything got out of control, they would take care of the problem. Feel free to explore all the rooms, stop where you want, partake as you wish.
Like a tour guide at Hearst Castle, their hostess drew them a verbal map. On the first floor to the left, through double doors that had been sound-proofed with rubber molding, was the BDSM hall. Karen was the one to ask. Bondage stuff. Debbie didn't linger over the description. To the right, through a similar set of doors, the viewing rooms. Performance art. She'd heard of such a thing, but she didn't think this would be anything like what she'd seen on PBS.
The second floor, well, every kind of sexual vice you could think of. Couples, women on women, orgies. Standing behind the guide, Karen's jaw dropped, her eyebrows scrunched together in a question mark, and her mouth moved, repeating the word "orgy." Debbie stifled an inappropriate giggle. The private rooms occupied the third level, each decorated in a theme complete with costumes, though Debbie figured the costumes didn't stay on for long.
The hostess smiled. "Now, you're free to move about at will. The ladies lounge is right through that door. If you should need to take a break." She pointed to an unobtrusive door which Debbie had mistaken for a coat closet.
"Do not leave me alone in this place for a minute," Karen whispered as soon as the woman left them. "It's creepy."
"Would you get a grip? This is supposed to be fun." Stacy adjusted one earring. "Regina, your choice since it's your party. Where to first?"
Virginia tapped her lip with a perfectly manicured nail. "Orgy room."
"Can't we start with something a little less wild?" Karen wailed.
"The whole place is wild." Stacy grabbed her hand. "Come on. Let's be brave."
Debbie trailed behind as they climbed the stairs. The music was only slightly louder in the wide second floor hall. Wall sconces provided a muted illumination. Here people milled about, sipping champagne, talking, laughing, and moving from room to room. The women were dressed in anything from cocktail dresses and long gowns to sexy tight clothing like Debbie wore. Male attire ran the gamut from tuxedos to Dockers.
Exiting a door, a couple leaned against the wall for a long kiss, the man's hands stealing inside the woman's unbuttoned blouse. Debbie stared as he openly massaged her breast. Her clitoris throbbed.
"You know, I think I'm going to wander by myself."
Karen stopped in the middle of the hall and stared. "You've got to be kidding."
She felt the soft strains of the music inside her, a forties standard. She didn't want to share this night with any of them. This was hers alone. She backed away. "I'm going this way. I'll see you at midnight." Like Cinderella.
Then she turned to leave them.
* * * *
Stacy caught his eye, giving him a brief nod in Debbie's direction. Stacy had secured his invitation and given him his instructions. He was to follow Debbie, take care of her, and show her a good time. A really good time. Stacy was good at issuing orders, but she didn't realize she'd relinquished all control to him the day she'd given him Debbie's web address, told him about her friend's magnificent artwork, and suggested that he recommend her windows to his clients.
Whatever happened now was between him and Debbie.
* * * *
She stopped at the first doorway just short of entering and gripped the jamb to steady herself. Her breath seemed to come too fast, and she sipped her champagne to calm herself. The bubbles went straight to her head.
Something spectacular was going to happen, she'd told herself in the car. Something that would change her life. Even if that "something spectacular" was nothing more than realizing that not every man getting close to forty lost his sex drive. Not every man would find her unattractive.
She put a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Yes, that was what she wanted. To attract a man.
A couple bumped her arm as they entered the room ahead of her. Male eyes fell to the swell of flesh above her low-cut neckline. Then, raising his gaze to hers, the man smiled. Licked his lips.
Moisture rushed between her legs.
God, yes, she wanted to attract a man. Maybe more than one man. She could. She just had. The man's broad shoulders disappeared beyond the door. She knew she'd follow. Not for him. But for herself.
Straightening, she entered.
Sconces lined the walls as they did in the hall, leaving much of the room dimly lit. Comfortable sofas, chaises, over-stuffed chairs and ottomans consumed the room. The very quantity of furniture seemed to dwarf the otherwise large chamber. Every available seat was occupied.
At first glance, the sight was actually much more tame than she'd considered, almost like a civilized get-together of well-dressed yuppies. Social drinking, small talk, laughter, and the soft beat of yet another forties tune. Except that man over on that sofa had his hand up his companion's skirt. As Debbie watched, the woman spread her legs slightly and put her hands on top of his, guiding him. And over there, on a chaise, a woman in a long sequined gown pulled down a man's zipper and removed his cock. He set his drink on a nearby table; then laced his hands behind his head as she stroked his penis, crooned to it; then took him in her mouth.
Debbie felt the pull of the woman's lips as if she were the one taking that cock in her mouth. She closed her eyes.
My God, sex was everywhere if you just looked. In the soft light of a sconce, a brunette rocked herself gently on a male lap. He bunched her lemon yellow dress in his fists and revealed his cock sliding in, sliding out. The penetration mesmerized Debbie. Her eyes trailed his fingers as he stroked up the back of that lemon dress. She met his gaze. He was the man who had passed her in the doorway. The one who had licked his lips. He stared at Debbie as he fucked the other woman. The heat in his eyes said she could have the honors next, if she chose.
"Excuse me." A woman pushed past her, forcing her further into the room. The blonde's nipples peeked above the line of her dress, which was short enough to reveal matching pubic hair. A real blonde.
Moving aside, Debbie leaned against a table, traded her empty glass of champagne for a full one; then drank as if she were parched. Maybe ditching the others had been a mistake.
She wasn't a prude. She really wasn't. A prude didn't give herself orgasms. But this shocked her. Titillated her. Her panties were damp between her legs, her lace bra chafed her nipples, and she had the insane need to touch herself. To touch someone.
What made her heart ache, in addition to all her other bodily parts, was the fact that the majority of men in the room were not young studs. They were her age. Her husband's age. They were proof that men did not lose their sex drive at forty.
They were living, breathing, horny proof that something was rotten in her marriage. She was very much afraid that if she traded places with her husband at this very moment, he would have a hard-on. And it wouldn't be for her.
Her vision blurred, and she sucked in air, almost choking on the sudden tightening in her throat.
Stop pitying yourself, Desiree.
Deliberately stuffing down the maudlin thoughts, she reached for her glass and brushed warm fingers.
* * * *
He caught the flute before it fell. Debbie's expression was a mixture of trepidation, shock, and excitement. As he'd imagined, her arousal scented the air around her, a subtle sensual aroma that made his balls tighten and his cock jump. He wanted to linger, to talk, to touch his lips to her beautiful mouth. But rushing the moment might destroy it. He wanted her past the point of fear, riding the edge of arousal where she was aware of nothing beyond the five senses. Where she was consumed by what she saw, creamy on the inside, unable to utter a word; where even taking a breath was enough to bring her to orgasm.
"Your champagne?" He handed her the glass, letting his fingers touch hers briefly in the exchange.
"Thank you."
She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, blue eyes wide, the dilated pupils attesting to her shock and innocence amidst the decadence in the room. He wanted to bury his cock inside her. She was gorgeous, the kind of woman capable of tying a man's gut into knots. He was sure she didn't have a clue what she could do to a man, to him. Damn her husband for stealing her self-confidence and her belief in her allure.
He backed away, holding her gaze until he could disappear into the shadowed hallway. He wanted her, Lord, how he wanted her. Still, he was a patient man. He didn't fear that she would turn to someone else in one of the rooms she explored. She wasn't ready for that.
No, when she finally decided she needed a man, he'd make sure she came to him.
CHAPTER THREE
God. That voice. It caressed her lips, her breasts, her abdomen; then reached between her legs. She watched until the man vanished amongst the hall rovers. She'd wanted to touch his hair; run her fingers through the dark locks streaked with gray. Her breasts tingled with the need to rub against him. He'd dressed more casually than most, a plain dark-colored, button-down shirt with black jeans. His tanned face didn't come from any sunlamp but from hard work outdoors. His fingers as they touched hers were rough with calluses. How good they'd feel against her clitoris.
She closed her eyes and pressed her thighs together. What was he doing here? She'd come for the titillation factor, the wildness, and to fantasize about letting herself go completely. What would a man with that handsome face and honed body need here? Was he married?
The word brought her back to herself. He might not be, but she was. Married to a man who hadn't made love to her in ages. And that wasn't fair. Dammit, Stacy was c
orrect, she deserved this night out. She deserved to feast her eyes on every little detail, she had a right to see how the other half lived. You yearn for what you lack, and with each successive night lying lonely in her marriage bed, the kinkier her fantasies had become.
Tonight was for her.
She stood away from the table she'd leaned against and met the man's gaze head on. The man who had invited her to have sex with a lick of his lips. Not you, she whispered in her mind. In her wildest dreams, her wildest fantasy, sex with multiple partners, sex in front of an audience, there had always been a bond with one man, one soul. She didn't have to be touching him, didn't even have to be looking at him. He was just there, watching her, wanting her, loving her.
The guy sticking his dick between yellow-clad thighs wasn't him.
She did, however, lift her glass in the air, tipping it in salute. Then she left the room. God, she felt alive. She felt good. Tilting her head back, she drew in a deep breath of air laden with the musk of sex and the sweet intoxication of light incense. Voices murmured along the hallway, the pitch of laughter a little higher and beneath it, the barely discernible moan of sexual release. Activity had picked up. Obviously they'd arrived much earlier than most.
So many rooms to explore; so many sights to drink in. Music beat against the soles of her feet. She longed to remove her high heels and let the rhythmic throb travel up her legs to her moist pussy. Suddenly she was tired of the relatively mild action on this upper floor. Besides, she didn't want to run into her group of friends, not yet. Thinking of the first level below, she considered the reason for the double doors with rubber stoppers leading off the lobby. BDSM on the one side--not really her thing--and performance art on the other. She'd come to watch, to let her fantasies spin out of control, and beyond those double doors, heaven awaited her. Heaven for a sex-starved almost-forty-year-old.
The Sex Club Page 2
