The Bonds of Orion (Loralynn Kennakris Book 5)

by Owen R. O’Neill

  With smiles intact, Kris and Mariwen followed Kazia down the steps and through the interior of the gallery. The only light was from the jellyfish, and whether it was that shifting, fickle and almost playful illumination or some other ingenious effect, the glass walls appeared to move slightly, a slow undulation, as if the structure were gently breathing. Combined with the firm but yielding floor what Kris had first taken for patterned stone was in reality a dark, fancifully grained hardwood, warm beneath her bare feet (they having left their shoes by the entrance) it lent an air of unreality to the trip, almost as if it was not them moving. but the ground sliding by as they floated just above, slightly out of contact, dream-like, and whether by locomotion or translation, they came to an octagonal room, its curved glass walls radiant with the self-lit creatures, casting a soft, lunar, shadowless light through the interior and over the five women within, all comfortably dressed and all smiling with expectation as Kazia made introductions.

  They weren’t as much in awe of Mariwen, splendid an emerald sari rich with gold threads, as might have been expected (or they were being discreet about it), and they were cordially respectful of Kris, whom Mariwen had cajoled into wearing her jeans with an ivory silk camisole under a short jacket of scuffed black leather (Mariwen called it distressed).

  First, Kris was introduced to Raine, Kenzie’s only sibling and maid of honor at the upcoming nuptials: a composed-looking woman with short gray-streaked hair and a tranquil smile. Ballard’s syndrome, which she’d suffered from for over a decade, had marked her more deeply than just the gray in her hair, making her look older than Kris thought she was. She still moved with the slight hesitation of the recently recovered, and her speech was halting, but her eyes were bright, and the joy she felt for Kenzie unmistakable.

  Another of the women, a sassy blonde named Harlyn, was a childhood friend of Kenzie’s who’d made the long trip from Fredonia, while other two were Chelle, the partner of one of Baz’s fellow instructors at the CEF Academy, and Janice, his physical therapist during most of his rehabilitation.

  The last, a young woman with the asymmetric hairstyle and eyes the color of a dark storm cloud, turned out be Rowan, their hostess for the evening, also Kenzie’s best friend and editor. Iridescent tattoos climbed out of the collar of her form-fitting midnight-blue trench coat, up along the side of her neck to her shaved temple, and emerged below the coat’s mid-thigh-length hem, scrolling down the outside her bare legs almost to the ankles.

  To Kris, Rowan looked as if she could easily have been a character from one of Kenzie’s novels. More than merely attractive, she had the kind of face that compelled attention because of the smile it could unleash without warning, although the chiseled features and strong jaw gave her a harder look than Kris thought she deserved. Her gray eyes gave that away, reiterating what the intricate etchings on her skin showed, hinting at the beautiful contradiction beneath the edgy initial impression. But right now, they held a roguish twinkle that made Kris wonder what was or wasn’t under that trench coat.

  They passed a few minutes in amiable chitchat until Rowan winked over her shoulder and exclaimed, “Oh, there she is! About time you showed up, guest of honor.”

  Kris turned her head, along with the others, to see Kenzie appear from an unsuspected side entrance, a bemused look on her heart-shaped face, rendered adorable by the way she was unconsciously nibbling one fingernail.

  “I got turned around. This place is . . . big.”

  “But you got it sorted and saved us from having to detail a search party to find you. C’mon,” Rowan beckoned. “What you need now is to lie down and have some champagne.”

  Kenzie walked into the octagon and glanced about. Eight low couches, arranged along the glass walls with equally low trapezoidal tables beside them, constituted the room’s only furniture, and there were nine of them. Rowan placed a sisterly arm around Kenzie’s shoulders, making her look even more petite next to the taller woman, while the softly clinging shimmery dress with a lace bodice that brought to mind sea foam over a sunlit ocean Kris was impressed with how the color matched Kenzie’s eyes made a charming contrast with the sexy severity of Rowan’s trench coat.

  “Get comfortable, everyone,” Rowan called the other guests, holding Kenzie there in the center of the room. “Anywhere you like.”

  Kris followed Mariwen, who was smiling in that knowing way of hers, and sat on the couch adjacent to the one Mariwen reclined on.

  “Comfortable,” Rowan reiterated, for half of them had alighted on the edge of their couches like perching birds. With the others, Kris settled back against the single padded arm and endeavored to feel comfortable. Satisfied, Rowan gave Kenzie a squeeze and, taking the last vacant place, nodded to Kazia.

  “Is it time to get this party started?”

  “Absolutely.” And Kazia tapped an icon on her xel.

  The first thing Kris sensed was a change in the quality of the light bathing the room. It gradually came to focus on Kenzie, waiting with hands clasped in front of her in a state of mounting anticipation. The nacreous glow it lent to her porcelain skin was entrancing, but the effect on her hair, styled today in soft waves and coyly pulled back on one side, impressed Kris more, making it appear to stir as if by a faint breeze.

  As remarkable as these phenomena were, the fact that the jellyfish alone accomplished them was probably more so, but that consideration lost itself in a strong sense of the surreal, of time suspended, until a voice, unmistakable, but having no apparent source, called out:

  “Kensington Lennox! This is your night! And we’re here . . . for your entertainment.”

  Kenzie gasped, they all followed her transfixed gaze, and all but Kazia looking stunned as a group of figures materialized from behind the glass wall. But not just figures people. In a stunning bit of optical legerdemain, they seemed to walk straight out the jellyfish’s domain: four tall men, shirtless, barefoot, in black leather chaps; each a perfectly muscled specimen, oiled torsos gleaming bronze or ebony or alabaster, handsome faces smiling wide as they bore aloft a bed of pearl and rosy coral. In pairs beside them, matching them stride for stride, were four tall women, attired much the same but for a cunning arrangement of leather straps across their breasts that enticed more than concealed, and carrying a magnum of champagne in each hand.

  Moving with the precision of a dress parade and the grace of a subtle ballet, they entered the room and set down the bed next to Kenzie, revealing it to be covered with nine platters of delicacies with an equal number of crystal flutes nestled in the center. The men took up the platters, all but one, crowning each with a flute, and distributed them to each table. As if at a signal Kris thought there must have been one the corks of each bottle the women held popped, a fusillade accompanied by an eight-fold eruption of foam, and following the men, they poured each flute full with swan-like dives of each arm.

  Into this delectable choreography walked Adam, in ripped jeans hung low on his narrow hips, a dark loosely cut jacket over a white silk tee shirt, fine enough to ball up in one hand and tight enough to hint at the deliciously sculpted abs underneath. As his bare feet silently crossed the room’s threshold, the servitors froze, captured in the act of serving, perfectly poised, and Adam began sing.

  He sang alone, unaccompanied, approaching Kenzie without a trace of affectation, still less any swagger; smiled at the blush that had crept up her neck to set her cheeks aflame, and picked up the last bottle of champagne without missing a beat. Opening it no pop, no sparkling shower this time he poured a glass full and placed it in her hand; gently taking her wrist and lifting it when it seemed she could not raise it of her own volition. Gliding behind her with a lithe movement, singing for her ear alone, he nudged the glass to her lips, and as she sipped, sipped again, and lowered it, he swept her up into his arms. Kenzie squealed but preserved her glass at the cost of half its contents, and pandemonium ensued. Music began to throb from the walls, the servitors moved, and they all cheered, even Kris, as he lay her on t
he stately bed.

  With his perfectly smooth milk-white skin, sensuous lips and short hair, sleek black but for a streak of shocking metallic turquoise, Adam was too pretty for Kris’ taste. But he had charisma to burn, despite his looks. You felt it as a physical thing, tightening the skin between your shoulder blades and making your breath come short. His voice could reach out, climb and soar; a supple instrument that fed, and was fed by, the music’s pulsing rhythms. If Kris could feel it raising heat in her chest, she could see that Kenzie’s blush was nearing ignition temp. All his prepotent energy focused on her, and she reveled in it, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, the pink tip of her tongue licking her lips repeatedly as Adam kept her glass full and coaxed her to sip.

  Kris accepted a gingered prawn from the beguilingly smiling raven-haired beauty kneeling next to her her body motionless, her eyes dancing and bit into it; the delicate crunch, the slow heat and moist succulence amplified by the energy sizzling in the room. On the bed, Kenzie was tasting a toasted scallop and giggling as Adam leaned close, offering a second morsel. As she took it, he looked into her eyes, his voice descended a full octave from the song’s chorus to next verse something about being wrapped up her arms, wrapped up in her, longing to be “in her” that had Kenzie blushing more furiously than ever.

  With a neat, smooth half-roll, he left the bed, to orbit it slowly as the song built to its climax and with at easy motion, the jacket ended up hanging from the headboard. Clad in no more than the tee shirt and ripped jeans now, the shirt’s frail material barely veiling the torso of a young Apollo, he arched over the bed’s foot as the song ended with a crash of chords and trailed off, a sweetly reverberating resolution.

  During the instrumental interlude that followed, soothing as a pair of kindly hands, Kris found her glass refilled and the tray of delicacies refreshed (she instantly homed in on the potato croquettes and something delightful in puff pastry), and resumed nibbling while observing the guest of honor.

  Kenzie didn’t seem quite so ready hyperventilate now. Adam was sitting next her, chatting sociably, recommending this treat or that one, and now and again whispering things that made her laugh. Easy, familiar, sweet; the lambent sensuality dialed back to a comfortable warmth it made Kris smile to see Kenzie having the time of her life, and she felt this companionable break in the proceedings probably meant more to Kenzie than the actual performance.

  Not that the performance was overshadowed by any means, as evidenced by the animated nod and a palm pressed to her lips, holding back another delighted squeal, as Adam asked if she’d like to hear another song.

  “You sure?” he asked, the wickedness asserting itself again. “Not boring you here, am I?”

  Kenzie’s reaction emphatic was much too weak a word; ardent, passionate and wholehearted weren’t any better assured him he was not.

  As it was, she got not one more song, but four. When he stripped off the tee shirt in the penultimate song, Kris thought Kenzie might combust, yet that would’ve been a minor conflagration compared to what happened next.

  In the middle of the last song, with Rowan seated on the bed with Kenzie and urging onto her knees to face Adam at the foot of the bed, Harlyn, her partner in crime, slunk up behind Adam and poured a generous quantity of oil over Adam’s shoulders and down his bare chest. As the oil trailed down in viscous streams, Rowan took Kenzie’s hands in hers and planted them firmly on those divine pectorals. Kenzie’s gasp and explosive giggles broke through the music, melding with the heady lyrics as Rowan slid her hands purposefully across Adam’s flesh until Kenzie, her shyness burned away, took to the exercise, catching the oil as it trickled over his abs down toward the waistband of those precariously positioned jeans.

  The song ended perhaps just in time, perhaps a moment too soon and Adam pulled Kenzie into a tight embrace and gave her a hearty kiss. The servitors circulated once again, leaving trays loaded with gifts for Kenzie and presenting each of the guests with a wrapped bundle, tied with satin ribbons. Refilling the champagne flutes one last time, they filed off, with rather more strut than they’d entered, glancing back over their shoulders with a wink or a nod. Adam leaned over to murmur a private farewell to Kenzie and made his exit, leaving her in the center of the rumpled bed, glowing fit to be seen from orbit.

  It took a few minutes for the atmosphere in the room to calm to a mere simmer, and for Kenzie, who looked transported, to regain some touch with the ordinary world, although Kris felt she was still floating somewhat above it.

  “Open your presents!” Rowan commanded, with a poke, and Kenzie seemed to finally become aware of the bounty piled at her feet. This drew everyone to her, Harlyn and Raine joining Rowan and Kenzie on the bed while the rest clustered round, so as not to miss a second of the proceedings. The wrappings yielded to Kenzie’s busy fingers, giving up their secrets to a chorus of oh’s and ahh’s and some informed commentary and one near shriek as Kenzie opened what appeared to be an innocent deck of cards, and Rowan instructed her to fan them out. Instantly, well-defined holographic figures appeared from each card, demonstrating every conceivable position and activity a couple might embark on during their wedding night (and some perhaps not so conceivable), a few appropriately accessorized.

  “I don’t really figure you need this,” Rowan remarked archly; a clear allusion to the nature of Kenzie’s books. “But the deck is customizable. And you can program the routines, too.”

  That earned a sidelong glance, and Kenzie scooped the cards into their box, the cavorting figures disappearing like lascivious genies back into their bottles. Placing the box among the other gifts, bottles of scented and flavored oils (apparently, someone in the know had brought extra to anoint Adam), bath salts and lotions, and some specially formulated perfume (“Careful what you do with that stuff,” Harlyn had said when Kenzie unwrapped it).

  Worse or better was to come. When Kenzie picked up the next package, a suggestively shaped cylindrical object, she squinted hard at Rowan.

  Rowan grinned back. “Open it. No cheating.”

  “What do you think I need this for?” Kenzie had confirmed her suspicions by squeezing the article.

  “Two’s better than one?” Rowan suggested, all smiling innocence. “Go on. There’s a surprise.”

  “Oh. You’re awful.” Kenzie tugged at the wrapping, revealing the device to her expectant audience.

  “Latest generation. Nanofiber. It moves. Upgraded synthnet. Open the pouch.” Her finger directed Kenzie’s attention to the small velvet pouch that accompanied it. Untying the cords, a delicate loop of fine silver and gold wires, with a single star sapphire a few millimeters across, fell into Kenzie’s moist palm.

  “Oh!” Janice leaned forward, staring intently. “Is that a clitoral loop?” As a physical therapist, she had an interest in such things.

  “The new one,” Harlyn cooed.

  “Lucky girl,” Janice said, winking at the renewed flame awash in Kenzie’s cheeks. “You have the best friends.”

  “Yes . . . I know.” Kenzie slipped the loop back into its pouch and added it and its companion article to her pile of treasure. One package remained, a flat, shallow box, as long as her forearm and half as wide. She read the tag. Her eyes lifted to Kris. “This is from you two?”

  “She picked it out,” Kris answered with a nod to Mariwen, who wore that lazy smile which often betokened “no good”. Kenzie had only recently met Mariwen, but she was astute enough to interpret that look and weighed the package critically. It was too light to be anything really treacherous.

  Lips pressed into a delicate frown that was absurdly (and unconsciously) cute, Kenzie pried open the box. Looking inside, her quizzical expression changed and brightened as she lifted a filmy garment from its bed of fine gilded paper. “It’s . . . it’s . . . beautiful.”

  Beautiful was one word for it; Kenzie seemed at a loss for others. Diaphanous and very faintly luminescent, it resembled a short sheath dress of no particular color: not silver or blue or green, but all of
them, subtle shades that slid together and melded; exquisitely indefinable.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Kenzie whispered.

  Nor had anyone, for Mariwen had commissioned it specially from James and Lielle, and it was made from a variant of the material they had used in the dress they’d given her in Taos.

  “You should try it on,” Mariwen suggested casually. That unleashed a chorus of agreement, and Kenzie regarded the sheer material with teeth dimpling her lower lip.

  “Okay.” She stood up and glanced about, considering the possible options.

  Mariwen stood up with her. “Let me help you with it. There are things about it that are a bit . . . tricky.”

  “Oh.” Kenzie smiled in bemused relief at the offer of rescue. “Sure.”

  Mariwen stepped over and put her hand on Kenzie’s elbow. “This will take a few minutes,” she told the others. “Please excuse us?”

  “We’ll stay entertained,” Rowan answered for them all. She lifted one of the dozen bottles of champagne that had been left behind, along with several trays of desserts. “As long as we get a viewing.”

  “You will, I assure you.” Mariwen smiled, and with that smile still lighting her features, coaxed Kenzie from the room. As they departed, Rowan retrieved the package that had been left for each guest. Opening it, she laid out a couple of silky garments next to her: loose shorts and a matching top.

  “I think I’m gonna get comfy. Okay if I change in here?”

  No one objected, and, taking the cue, the space came alive with the rustle of packages being opened, soft cries of appreciation, and one of “PJs!” in tones for high-pitched delight. “These are fabulous! And they match! Sweet!”

  Laughter and giggles showed this to be the enthusiastic consensus, and looking at hers, forest green trimmed with antique gold, Kris realized each outfit had been selected to match the recipient’s eyes. It was a very sweet touch, Kris felt, and while she wasn’t familiar with the term PJs (she assumed it was historical term in keeping with the retro theme, rather like the ejaculations fabulous and sweet), she knew they were intended to sleep in: it was a slumber party after all, and by all appearances, that was to be meant to be taken literally. Kris had a mariner’s ingrained dislike of sleeping in anything (indeed, more so than most), even something this light. However, for the sake of the occasion, she could endure it for a night.