The Professional

Page 31

“It’s a place I’ve been before.”
As we followed the tunnel, I realized we were descending below the city. I’d read about catacombs underneath the streets of Paris and was itching to investigate my surroundings, yet he led me ever forward.
Ahead was a circular chamber with more torches. In the center, a fountain bubbled, flames dancing across the surface of the water. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls, illuminating mosaics. The tiles depicted lusty satyrs and maidens in coitus, the flames making it look like the satyrs were moving, thrusting.
Next to a formal entrance, a shining brass plaque was embossed with four words:
LE LIBERTIN
CLUB PRIVÉ
I murmured to him, “Is this some sort of . . . sex club?” Wasn’t sex club synonymous with swingers’ club? My heart fell. The idea of sharing him—or being shared—stopped me in my tracks.
“Lost your nerve?” he asked, detecting my tension.
“I don’t want either of us to be with anyone else.”
He backed me against the wall under one of those torches. Firelight captured his face; behind his mask, his eyes were molten gold. “You are my woman. Mine. And I learned very early in life not to share what’s mine. You think I’ll ever let another touch you?”
I lifted my chin. “I won’t be sharing you either.”
This seemed to gratify him. “Then we’re in agreement. Any other hard limits I should be made aware of?”
I thought he was amusing himself with me, so I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Just take me into the freaking club before I die of curiosity.”
Inside, a woman greeted us from behind a large secretary. She too wore a formal gown and a mask, an owl one. Though it obscured some of her features, her olive skin, lithe figure, and sloe eyes were arresting. “Welcome,” she said with a thick French accent as she helped me from my stole. Once she’d stored it, she told Sevastyan, “Your private room is this way, Monsieur S.”
How many times had Sevastyan been here?
He said something to her in French, then ushered me forward with his possessive hand back on my hip. As we followed her down an arcade, strains of lively classical music grew more distinct. We approached a set of double doors manned by liveried footmen, expressionless as they granted us entry.
Past the doors was a dazzling ballroom with a soaring ceiling, filled with formally dressed attendees.
We are no longer in the Corn Belt, folks.
Massive flower arrangements perfumed the air. Rich tapestries graced the walls, depicting more sensual scenes. Matching statues of Venus—which looked like they belonged in museums—flanked a grand staircase. Along the steps, living human statues with skin dusted gold held candelabras to light the way.
The decadent velvets, swathes of silk, and candlelit grandeur made me feel like I’d walked into a French period film. I finally found my voice to murmur, “How old is this place?”
“Centuries.”
With that one word, he might as well have shot me full of adrenaline. Ah, the history—I breathed it in. Endeavoring to note every detail, I gawked all around me.
As we passed through the throng of attractive partygoers, I realized no one was getting down and dirty. There were drinks and laughter and flirting, but nothing different than you’d see in a regular club.
Was it just me, or were we collecting lots of stares? Sevastyan seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked him.
“They think you’re available. That you don’t belong to me.”
“Why?”
“Because you lack a collar.”
Collar and keep you. “Um, that’s hot—in a totally appalling kind of way.” But hey, this was all pretend, all gossamer fantasy and silken decadence, right? Noticing that many of the women did, in fact, sport collars, I asked him in a fake petulant tone, “How come I don’t get a collar?”
But he was serious when he answered, “You haven’t earned one.” Right when I was about to flare, he added, “And I haven’t earned the right to give it to you.” He looked so conflicted behind his domino.
A fit, middle-aged man swept in front of us. He wore an elephant mask with an exaggerated trunk. Subtle, buddy, reaaallll subtle. He started to speak, but Sevastyan just gave him his signature killing look—the one that made men quake.
We weren’t stopped again.
The owl woman was waiting for us at that grand set of stairs. We followed her up to a second-floor landing, then made our way down a hallway lit by gas lamps.
“Where are we going, Siberian?”
“Patience,” he intoned.
Not exactly my strong suit. After all, impatience was a sibling to curiosity.
A thought struck me. “Why did you pick a butterfly mask for me?” Of all the creatures he could have chosen.
“Do you think there has to be a reason?”
“I’m finding that you don’t do anything without a reason.”
“Perhaps there was . . .”
“Here we are,” the woman said, stopping before an unmarked door. She unlocked it, and we entered.
An ornate candle chandelier cast subdued light over the space. In the middle of the room was a large settee upholstered in sumptuous-looking fabric. Antique chairs and tables made up a sitting area off to the side; a copper tub sat off to another. A plush theater curtain covered an entire wall.
The air was warm, smelling of candle wax and . . . newness. Which was odd, considering how vintage everything else had seemed.
It also smelled of leather.
The woman opened a waiting bottle of chilled champagne, pouring two flutes before she left. At the door, she gave me a knowing wink. What did she know that I didn’t?
Maybe that a train was barreling down the trestle? Or how deep the freaking water was?
Keep cool, Natalie. I trusted this man to protect me, to pleasure me, to be what I needed him to be.
He motioned to the settee. “Sit.”
I did, noting that it faced the theater curtain. Would we be viewing a movie? A bawdy play? We hadn’t gotten to enjoy the masquerade at all, I thought with disappointment. In books, people always got to stay till midnight at least—not ten measly minutes.
Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I spied covered shapes throughout the room—shapes that could be anything. But I had an idea. My mind raced to those BDSM vids I’d devoured, the primer I’d inhaled, the magazine I’d shown him. Was there a pillory in here, or a spanking bench, or a swing? Would Sevastyan bind me up to torment me?
Part of me was terrified at the prospect. But I was woman enough to admit the idea got me wet. Roll with it, roll with it.
When he sat beside me, I said, “What is this room?”
“It’s ours. One of the very few available to own.”
Ours? “How long have you had it?”
“About nine hours. I had it renovated today and equipped to my specifications.”
Since our fight this morning? That explained the new smell. I could only imagine the money he’d had to throw at this to get everything ready in time.
He picked up a multi-button remote from the table beside the settee. “You told me that you wanted to see more of Paris. Here’s another slice of it.” He pressed a button. The curtain began to open, revealing a wall of glass.
Behind the glass was . . . was . . .
When I realized what I was beholding, I breathed, “Oh. My. God.”
Sevastyan’s hand shot out to catch my champagne flute just before it hit the ground. . . .
Chapter 34
When my shock lessened a degree, I was able to comprehend what I was seeing beyond the room’s glass wall.
Sevastyan had brought me to this private club to witness . . . an orgy.
And it was going on strong.
There must have been three dozen participants, attractive ones. They were all in a center ring, as if in a circus, with sex apparatus everywhere.
Masked men and women were strapped to X-frames, caged in pillories, or suspended from chains in the ceiling. One woman was fettered to what looked like a body-shaped massage table. Females and males were bent over crimson boudoir chairs. Strong hands gripped splayed ankles.
Once I’d recovered enough to react, my hands flew to my mask. “They can see us watching them?”
“They can’t see inside,” Sevastyan assured me. “They only see a mirror, unless we push a button on the remote. And, Natalie, they’re fully aware they’re being watched.”
Then I’d just been taken to voyeur heaven. “This—is—the—tits.”
“Indeed.”
One na**d woman was perched on a trapeze with her ass atop the bar, her feet resting on either side. The trapeze was lowered until she was mouth-level with a guy who buried his face between her legs, while a brawny man slowly took him from behind.
Not everyone was na**d. Some wore leather accessories. Others wore elaborate lingerie: shimmery corsets, intricate garters, and striped hose as if from Moulin Rouge. One man’s entire body was encased in some kind of vacuum-sealed black sleeve, with only an air tube and his erection protruding—the latter of which was promptly utilized by a nubile female.
I wanted to examine every little detail, every act in the ring. It was as if there were scenes from all of my most erotic dreams. I wished I had ten sets of eyes! Or that I could record this.
Every lash across upthrust br**sts made my own swell against my bustier. When the trapeze woman began screaming her way to ecstasy, bucking against that man’s mouth, my panties grew wet.
Without dragging my gaze away, I said, “There are other rooms like this?” I’d noticed all the walls surrounding the orgy were mirrored.
“There are six total.”
“You told me you’ve been here before. Were you down there?”
“On occasion.”
One woman was tied backward over what looked like a huge barrel. Men lined up to use her mouth, while others took turns licking her. She seemed starving for more.
Had Sevastyan been one among those men?
Just as jealousy flared, he pulled me into his lap, curling his finger under my chin so I’d face him. “And I hungered to be where I am now. With a woman in my keeping. I’d wager most of them in the ring would envy us our position.”
“You’d want a single woman over all those beauties?” The closest one to us was model fine, on her hands and knees and spitted by two men—a shaft in her mouth and another between her legs. They were railing the hell out of her, to her blatant delight.
Sevastyan said, “Considering that you are the woman in question, yes.”
Smooth. “Do you want us to be down there now?”
“I told you. I learned very early not to share. No one else touches what’s mine.” His gaze flicked over my face. “Can you handle this?”
Did he think I’d beg off? “Since they can’t see in, it’s like watching porn. Which I excel at. So all good here.”
He dragged me against his chest. Once I’d settled comfortably on his lap, he handed my glass back to me.
Sipping champagne and watching unabashed sex while his scent permeated my mind.
In fact, all of my senses were heightened. There was music, even laughter, but the rest of the sounds were erotic. Moans, groans, and rampant screams. Crackling leather, clanking chains, and snapping floggers.
Against my ass, I could feel Sevastyan’s heavy c*ck like a red-hot brand. I found myself squirming against it, rubbing my thong against my wet labia.
Even the bubbling champagne tickled my tongue. I imagined pouring it down his body and licking him clean. . . .
Yet aside from all I was seeing and feeling, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Sevastyan had chosen me to bring here, had purchased this room with me in mind. The idea of him taking such care to get every detail right moved me.
He truly was trying for us.
I finished my champagne, vaguely aware that he took the flute from me.
Then his hand wandered up the slit of my gown, which had ridden up well above the top of my thigh-high. “Spread your legs as much as you can.”
Never looking away from the spectacle, I did, bending one knee over his legs. I wanted my thighs wider; I wanted to be rid of this confining dress. I needed his skin against mine, as much as I needed to see everything happening in the ring—every new knot, kiss, whipping, and release. My gaze bounced from one scene to the next.
“You can’t even decide where you want to look,” Sevastyan observed with dark amusement as he used his forefinger to draw lazy circles on my inner thigh. “And your heart’s racing.”
The champagne and wine I’d consumed, combined with my constricting bustier, were making me light-headed. My breaths were shallow, br**sts quivering above my bodice.
They must have attracted his attention—with his other hand, he began to draw those same circles over the tops of my br**sts. Then came an electric shock. Part of my areola was peeking out above the bustline of the gown, and he was lightly scraping his nail over it.
If he kept this up, I’d probably orgasm. “Sevastyan, before I forget . . . no matter what happens, I want to thank you for bringing me here.”
“You thank me? What does my taking you here say about me, Natalya? To win a woman, I am willing to defile her?”
“Defile?” My tone was incredulous as I regarded a couple at the far right of the ring. The man was tied down to a spanking bench while a woman in thigh-high boots caned him. His skin was sweating, muscles straining, expression ecstatic. “This is one of the most glorious things I’ve ever witnessed.”
Sevastyan followed my gaze, then frowned as if we couldn’t be looking at the same thing. “You consider this so?”