Page 6 of A Touch Wicked
The man at the door came into view, wearing a mask and dark clothes. “New member?”
“How can you tell?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You’ve got an uncertain look about you. You’ll find other members in the sitting room at the end of the hall. If you like to be watched—” the man gave him a meaningful look — “the three observation rooms are clearly marked. All others are private; you’ll find the key on the outside of the door. Stay until morning if you like. Questions?”
James had to admit that the man’s candidness set him more at ease. “Did you have that speech memorized?”
He smiled and winked. “Indeed,” he said, opening the door beside him. “Welcome to the Masquerade.”
James entered a long hallway with dozens of doors on either side. He’d intended to visit in the sitting room and meet with the other members, but slowed as he passed an open door.
Christ.
The sight before him was . . . erotic. Arousing. A handful of people in the same room, in various states of undress. Flickering candlelight illuminated their bodies. A masked woman was bent over a desk as a man thrust into her from behind. On the couch were two more women enjoying the attentions of the men on their knees between their legs. The last couple made love against the wall; both were completely, unabashedly naked.
Watching them, listening to their screams and moans of pleasure, James hardened. He had never been more hard in his life. He lingered longer than he ought to have, letting the sounds of their lovemaking fill his ears.
And he wanted.
God, he wanted.
This was everything he needed.
One of the women on the couch glanced up and caught James looking. She smiled a devil’s smile and crooked a finger at him. She wanted him to join them.
James’s breath caught. His fingers went to his coat, unbuttoning — until he heard a beautiful, breathless voice whisper French in his ear, “Viens avec moi.”
Come with me.
Chapter 4
Emma became a different woman when she wore her mask and borrowed clothes.
The dress Alexandra lent her hugged every curve and left enough of her breasts visible that any man would ogle to get a better look. If she had worn such a garment as herself, she would have flushed all over and immediately traded it for another.
It was anonymity that gave Emma a confidence she had never felt before. When she saw a masked James stroll into the Masquerade, she’d walked up to him and boldly whispered in his ear in French. Her fingertips had brushed his own in a clear invitation:yours if you want it.
He’d shivered at her touch and grasped her hand.
Yes, he wanted it.
As James lead them into one of the empty rooms, she felt a keen sense of triumph.
Finally.
Finally.
James grasped the key from where it hung around the handle and locked them in with a decisive click.
Emma tried not to let her nervousness show as she took in the room where she was to conduct her deception. She wanted to commit it to memory. Those recollections would serve her for many lonely nights after this, long after she had said goodbye.
The bedchamber was lush, with crimson velvet curtains and red, textured wallpaper. The furniture was all dark and gleaming, certainly fitting for a room of seduction. They appeared sturdy enough to withstand enthusiastic lovemaking — leaving little doubt of their primary purpose.
For the more discerning lovers, the four poster bed was large enough for several people. At once.
Emma kept her back to James. She felt his hungry gaze track her movements as she unbuttoned her cloak. “Parlez-vous français?” she asked softly, already knowing the answer.
If she wanted to keep this secret, she couldn’t speak the way she did in his household. It was too obvious. That proper English accent her tutors had forced her to use lacked any trace of a Parisian lilt. No, this would be part of her disguise. Her mystery.
