Page 22 of Chandelier Sin
I made my way across the vast room, not wanting to be in his presence one more second in case I gave away more of myself than I ever had to anyone.
I had to lock my heart down.
I didn’t want Atticus to see I was merely a plaything. A trophy wife. My only purpose was to be dressed up and ordered to fulfill a man’s bidding.
At least chattel could run away.
Don’t look back.Because that would return all the power to him.
I still had some dignity.
But even as I placed distance between us, my body craved Atticus. Craved more time with a man brave enough to hold a conversation with me.
He’d kept my loneliness at bay.
Enough to comfort me in the shadowy hours. Until I dissociated and was able to forget him.
I exited the room, unsure how I’d be able to act as though nothing had happened and I hadn’t been shaken to my core by a dashing stranger.
I returned to the private suite to reclaim my wig, using the mirror so I could become Blondie again and assume my alter ego—a softspoken bombshell with feelings no one cared about.
Heading back out the way I’d come, I glanced behind me to see if anyone followed, secretly hoping Atticus wouldn’t give up stalking me so easily.
I made my way through the small bar and out the other side, all the way along the sprawling hallway that led to a dead end.
Glancing back one last time, I entered the secret cupboard and pressed my palm against the wall, finding the camouflaged button.
The elevator ascended.
I pressed my hand over my fluttering heart, trying to steady my quickening pulse, surrendering to the allure of Atticus Sinclair, who filled every corner of my mind with a forbidden craving.
As I rode the elevator all the way to the sixth floor, I fought against my desire to reimagine the man who made me aware of every single breath I took.
I’d wanted to drag Eve in for a passionate kiss and taste her lips, her mouth, her soul—andto hellwith who saw us.I’d also wanted to rip off her mask to see her face.
Through a Venetian disguise, her eyes had sparkled with intrigue.
But after that last exchange, the fun was over.
I’d fucked up—having dished out my usual brand of arrogance.
Trying to take my mind off the possibility I’d ruined a potentially good thing, I turned my attention to the ménage à trois.
The scene had become more intense. The three women were now searching out their own pleasure, as if they too had forgotten that all eyes in the room were fixed on them.
Only two women were making love in this act now, a brunette and a blonde. The third had gripped the chin of the blonde to hold her in place, a demanding of stillness to endure the attention the brunette forced upon her with vigor.
The brunette became even more determined between her lover’s thighs, causing them to tremble, proving she was bringing her closer.
In the dimly lit sensual ambiance, the two lovers moved as one, a symphony of grace, their fucking like a dance within a dance of subtle cues, both gliding with a feline physicality that played out beneath the pulsating rhythm of music, both mirroring each other’s pleasure, mirroring passion in a seamless fusion of motion.
Arching her slender back, the blonde thrust her hips, begging for a continuance of attention at her core, begging the giver of bliss who was lapping at her pussy to never cease her frenzied attention.
This may have been an act, but the pleasure was real.
There it was—her orgasm denial offered up to the audience as a familiar component. Not until they were all out of control and had put on a brilliant scene would they be permitted to find their release. A usual tactic when a scene had drawn attention, the reason for their entire existence.
Their bodies intertwined, creating a seamless fusion of need and want and desperation, until a climax finally met the blonde halfway.
