“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “Sorry I said that.”
She didn’t answer. She was staring at the roses, drooping hauntingly on their stems, the roses that cancelled out the Wilder’s white bouquet and his oversized scarlet arrangement. She touched one of the flowers and a cascade of petals fell to the floor. “What kind of florist would create such a thing?”
“I’ll throw them away for you,” he said, picking up the vase and tucking it under his arm. He’d throw it away—right after he showed it to Liam. Shit was so fucked up sometimes. He hated all the anger and sadness in the world. He hated asshole fathers and psycho fans, and mean ballet partners like him.
Yes, he was mean to her a lot. She brought out that beast in him and he didn’t know how to handle it, except to push her away. He needed distraction and distance from her pretty smelling locks, her witchy green-eyed stare. He needed release, alcohol and partying and beautiful people. That’s what Saturday nights at Liam’s house were for.
*** *** ***
Petra watched him go with the usual feeling of conflicted longing. Why did he have to be so virile and attractive? Why so careless with her feelings? And then so sweet, worrying for her safety?
Why did he have to bring up her father, tonight of all nights?
She’d secretly wished Petr Grigolyuk would be here, secretly fantasized about him showing up backstage. She’d built the whole thing up in her head, the way he’d be awkward, as if he wasn’t sure his estranged daughter would accept him. She would have played it cool at first, but then she would have said, “I’m glad you came to see me dance.” From there, they could have started a relationship, even if it was just a friendship...
Ugh, she hated herself. When the flowers were delivered she’d pounced on them, thinking surely one of the arrangements had been from him. But why on earth would her father send her flowers after ignoring her from birth?
Rubio had gotten her flowers. Beautiful roses, tons of them. She traced the petals of one scarlet bud. Muitos abraços. She’d keep that card forever, just like she’d remember this night forever. If she’d ever given such an inspired performance, she couldn’t remember it, and it was all because of him, The Great Rubio, who was truly great as a ballet partner. Was he trying to make her crazy, being utterly charming and talented, and then devastating her with his careless mention of her father? Was he playing some game with her? She wondered if it had to do with his kinky, dominant thing.
Speaking of which... She looked down at Liam’s card. Big white house. You can’t miss it. How many friends could Rubio have who lived in big white houses in Regents Park? Who happened to be “busy” tonight? Busy hosting a BDSM party, she was sure. She never would have guessed Liam was the friend Suzanne and Hannah had been talking about. He seemed too polished and sedate for such depravities, and if he was married to Ashleigh Keaton, then she was a closet freak too.
Right now, probably this moment, Rubio was headed to this party to get his kink on. Inappropriate fantasies crowded her brain, making her feel dirty. She threw down the card and got ready to leave, wiping off her makeup, showering and drying her hair. She had to get over this sexual obsession with him. She knew it was only because of the mystery, because she didn’t know what he was into, or what he did at those parties in the big white house.
But there was a way to find out.
A wig from the wardrobe room, some heavy makeup and dark eyeliner, and Liam and Rubio wouldn’t know her, especially if she hid herself in the crowds. There’d be crowds there, wouldn’t there, if it was such a big house? If she wore dark, nondescript clothing and kept her head down...
No. It was a ridiculous idea. A dangerous idea, because if Rubio discovered her she’d never live down the embarrassment. Or if Liam and Ashleigh discovered her...
But he was heading to that party right now.
Petra groaned and put her face in her hands. What else was she going to do tonight? Go home and worry about the dead flowers? After the high of the performance?
She stared at Liam’s card, turning it over and over. It didn’t take long to convince herself this was something she had to do. This was the only way to get over him, to get past the curiosity and craving that dogged her. It was just...necessary. With that suspect rationalization, Petra headed for the wardrobe room before she lost her nerve.
Chapter Six: You
An hour later, Petra stood outside the Wilders’ house, her knees knocking together beneath her black knit dress. She had prettier dresses, and fancier ones, but she wasn’t out to get noticed—she needed to blend in. She flicked her synthetic black hair over her shoulder, then reached one last time to be sure all her real hair was hidden beneath the tight cap of the wig. Theater wigs were great because they were designed to stay on and not slide around a lot. She’d added a few pins just in case. In case of what? In case she had wild sex with someone? So it wouldn’t come off? She wasn’t going to the party to have sex, or even to spy on Rubio. She was going to prove to herself that her fantasies were just that—fantasies. She hoped to God that Rubio was gross and unattractive while he was having sex. She hoped he had a terrible “o” face and no rhythm and a miniscule dick. She hoped the BDSM stuff was cheesy and laughable.
That’s what she hoped, but she had no idea what she’d actually see, or if she’d even get in. There were men inside the door checking people against a guest list. Crap. She’d pictured this entire thing being open and anonymous. In desperation, she huddled behind a couple and climbed the stairs with them. The doormen waved the couple through with a greeting. Petra tried to slide in after them but one of the men held out a hand.
“Good evening. Have you been here before?”
She froze. “No... I’m, uh... I’m new in town. But I know some of the people here.”
That was true. She knew Rubio and she knew Liam and Ashleigh. A little.
“Would you mind naming names?” the shorter, stockier guy asked. “Did someone invite you? Are you on the list?”
“I work with Fernando Rubio,” she said, because it was probably the only way to gain admittance. “I dance with the London City Ballet.”
The doormen glanced at each other. “She does have that look about her,” one of them said.
“Mr. Rubio invited you?” the other one asked.
She nodded, a flush burning across her cheeks. “He invited me to come check things out. He didn’t tell you?”
Please, please, don’t find him to validate my story. I’m totally lying to you. The taller one looked at his cohort. “Should we ask Liam?”
She pushed down rising panic. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if they called Liam. She could pretend she was here for advice about the dead flowers. Although, with the fake hair, and the way she was dressed... The guys studied her, and it suddenly seemed that everything about her must be completely transparent. That she was wearing a wig, that she was lying, and that she hadn’t been invited here at all.
Just as she was about to turn and flee, the shorter one gestured her in.
“How much trouble can she be?” he said to the other guy. “If Liam has a problem with her, he can throw her out.”
The tall one grinned. “Have fun, sweetheart. Bar’s by the kitchen, play room is down the staircase. Drinks stay in the living room and no scening while intoxicated. Absolutely no drugs.”
“I don’t use drugs,” said Petra, feeling like a suck up. Just shut up and go in before they change their mind.
She hurried into the marble-tiled foyer. The house was packed with mingling, well-dressed people, all engrossed in conversations. Her heartbeat calmed as she realized it would be pretty easy to hide in the midst of this noisy crowd. She went to the bar and asked for a vodka shot. The bartender had a thin face and white blond hair like hers, and was wearing a toga made of gold lamé. The other bartender was in full leather. Gold Lamé Toga poured her a generous shot of luxury-label vodka. “How much is it?” she asked over the din of the electronic music.
�
��No one pays for drinks here.” His youthful features twisted into a grin. “Your first time at the ball, honey?”
She nodded and dug for a tip. “No,” he said. “Go have fun. Mr. Wilder foots the bill. But we’re required to cut you off when you get sloppy.”
“So don’t get sloppy,” boomed the other bartender, tipping his leather hat to her.
“I’ll try not to.” She smiled and tossed the shot back, then winced as it burned down her throat. The Russian half of her enjoyed vodka, whether that Russian half was legitimate or not. While she waited for the liquor to calm her nerves, she looked around the Wilders’ place. The main room had a soaring ceiling and swanky leather furniture, ornate molding, and gold-framed art on the wall. Real estate here must be crazy. Just how big was this Ironclad security company Liam owned?
Petra shrank back as Liam walked by in a button down shirt and jeans, but his attention was on his wife and her group of friends. That crisis averted, she scanned the room, but she didn’t recognize anyone else. Either Rubio wasn’t in attendance, or he was downstairs. She asked for one more shot, for courage, downed it in one gulp, and skirted the outside of the crowds until she reached the wide marble staircase that led below.
What would she find down there? How hard did this sexy crowd party? She lifted her chin, prepared to see just about anything as she moved into view of the lower floor. She heard the sounds of impact first, thuds and smacks and screams, but they were happy screams. As she neared the landing, the play room opened before her in a series of erotic tableaux.
Wow. Just wow.
The Wilders’ entire basement was set up in her image of the classic sex dungeon. There were intricate racks and solid wooden benches, crosses and cages, chains and pulleys and other equipment she’d read about in her investigation into the BDSM “lifestyle.” Almost all of it was in use. From the stairs she could see the whole room, but she didn’t dare stand there and gawk. She continued down and moved off to the side.
The music was softer down here, so she could hear the pervasive sounds of lust and arousal. The lighting was minimal, which suited her purposes—lots of shadows to hide in. The walls, floors, and ceiling were all black, lit by candelabras that flickered even though the candles were fake. From her vantage point, she could see that the back and side walls were loaded with whips, handcuffs, sex toys, and some stuff she didn’t recognize. Aside from the decor and the extensive selection of BDSM toys, the whole room was alive with people, real people doing really intimate and perverted stuff, freely, in public.
Petra watched all of this with a sense of wonder. She wasn’t a prude by any means, but...wow. These people were going at it full throttle, with no self-consciousness, at least none that she could see. There were crawling women on leashes, slave men decked out in complex body harnesses, Dom-types with leather floggers and cuffs clipped to their belts. In one corner, a burly man decorated a curvy girl with knotted rope, while his female assistant stroked and teased her between the legs.
Nearby, a man walloped a bent-over, voluptuous woman with a thick strap. The woman cried out at each blow, but she was clearly enjoying it. The woman’s ass was scarlet red beneath her sheer pink panties, and her entire body seemed to tremble in fear at the same time she accepted each stroke. As for her partner, his face lit up in a smile at each of her cries and groans. It was so freaky and weird and...hot. The sound of the strap and the impact turned Petra on, even though she didn’t want anything like that to happen to her. It was impossible not to react to the intensity of interplay between the couple.
Petra closed her eyes. No. No, she didn’t want to be that girl. Did she?
No. She was only getting turned on because it had been so long since she’d had sex. It had been too long since anything raunchy or intense happened in her bedroom, unless she counted her sex dreams about Rubio, and they weren’t real.
Rubio. Where was he? She searched the room as well as she could, but other scenes caught her attention. A twenty-something girl with long stripey socks clutched a teddy bear while an older couple played with her breasts. A super hot, barely-legal guy knelt in front of a latex clad woman, alternately licking and polishing her boots, while a girl in skin-tight leather writhed and screamed as her Dom paddled her.
If she was that girl, would she scream like that? She wondered what it felt like, to be spanked while screaming her lungs out, powerless to get away. She’d fantasized about it, but these men and women were really living it.
“Hey, Ashleigh!” Arms encircled her, pulling her into a full body embrace. “I thought you went upstairs with Liam.”
From his touch alone, she knew it was Rubio. His hands roved over her flat stomach. “Meu Deus do céu. What happened to your baby?”
Petra turned and stepped away from him. He took in her face and her hair at the same time she took in his astounding nakedness. He was hard all over, beautifully muscled, his pronounced iliac furrows framing a truly magnificent cock. She dropped her gaze and stared at the ground. Don’t recognize me. Please don’t recognize me.
He put a finger under her chin and tipped her head up. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he scrutinized her face. His voice came low and roughened with surprise. “You!”
She shook her head, like she might still play this off. He backed away and looked at all of her—her dress, her wig, the black pumps she wore instead of her toe shoes.
“You,” he exclaimed again, like he couldn’t get his brain wrapped around it. Her brain wasn’t working that well either. She was stone-cold busted and Rubio was so, so naked. When she turned to flee, he caught her arm.
“Wait. What are you doing here?” He pushed back her hair when she tried to hide her face. “Why are you wearing a wig?”
So you won’t recognize me, damn it. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” she lied. “To have a good time, to relax, to enjoy myself.”
“What in holy fuck?” He seemed outraged, which made no sense since he was here and, from the looks of things, having quite a pleasurable time. “I thought you were Ashleigh,” he spluttered. “You looked just like her from behind.”
“You run around groping Ashleigh whenever you feel like it?” Petra snapped. “I thought she was married to your friend.”
“What are you doing here?” he repeated, ignoring her question. Again, helplessly, her gaze dipped to his half-engorged and wholly-impressive cock. He reached down and covered himself with an affronted expression. “Stop leering at me like I’m a piece of meat.”
“I’m not leering. You’re the one running around naked.” He wasn’t the only one, sure, but he was the only one standing two feet from her. And the only one with a body that made her want to cry in its virile perfection. She’d seen him bare-chested, in clinging sweats, and in body-hugging tights that left nothing to the imagination. Even then, she’d never imagined this.
“Come here.” He took her elbow and steered her deeper into the dark corner. He backed her against the wall and leaned down, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he waggled a finger in her face.
“If you came to spy on me, to tell my secrets to everyone, too bad. Everyone knows I come here. I’m not ashamed that I’m kinky.”
What? He thought she was here to out him or something? She didn’t want him to believe that so she spit out another blatant lie. “I’m here because I’m kinky too.” She stuck out her chin, willing her voice not to shake as she lied her head off. “I’ve been kinky my whole life, as long as I can remember.”
“Who are you here with? Who invited you?”
She bit her lip. How long was she going to brazen this out? “No one invited me. I heard about this party and I came to check it out.” She shot a longing look over his shoulder, to the stairs and the exit.
“Who you looking for here?” he persisted. “A man? A woman? A top or a bottom?”
His intent questions alarmed her almost as much as her lies. “It’s none of your fucking business who or what I’m looking for
.”
He stared at her a moment, then he snorted. “You have sub all over you like fucking body oil. Is leaking out of your pores.”
“It is not.”
“I knew you were a sub from the second I met you. I just wasn’t sure you knew it.”
She inched away from him, back toward the activity and noise of the play room floor. “It doesn’t matter. Just because you’re a Dom—”
“I’m a top,” he said sharply. “I don’t do all that role play stuff. I top women and make them feel good. I hurt them, give them sex. They like it. End of story for me.” His gaze flashed with a way-too-alluring intensity as his lips quirked up in invitation.
“That’s great,” she managed to say. “Good for you.”
She walked away from him, because she needed distance and because she was thinking really stupid and ill-advised thoughts.
“Hey.” He grabbed her and pulled her back again. She couldn’t help it—her gaze returned to his cock. It was the barest glance, but he noticed.
“How long since you had sex, Petra? Too long, huh? You like what you see?” He slipped a hand around her waist, brought her right against his chest. She hated that it felt so good, so natural to be in his arms. We’re partners, that’s why. Don’t allow this, stupid girl.
“I’ll top you if you like,” he said in a soft, compelling voice. “Tie you up and hurt you and make you feel so good.” His cock rose with insistent presence against her front. “Then we could do whatever you like. Fucking, oral, even anal if you’re into it. I’m into it,” he added in a truly filthy whisper.
She could barely draw breath. “No, I don’t want you t-to top me. I was just—just going home. I’m tired.”
“But you keep staring at my cock,” he wheedled. “Three, four times now you’re staring at it like you want it.”
Fever Dream Page 6
