Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
I don’t understand how Tatiana could enjoy this, but who am I to judge.
“This isn’t our kind of thing,” Henry whispers as if reading my mind. He kisses my temple and then leads me away.
Everywhere I look, people are having sex or watching sex. This event is drenched in it. I know who my future husband is. No wonder he never misses it. But it stirs questions. “Have you ever been in one of those rooms?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Every time.” He didn’t hesitate to answer.
My stomach swirls as I try to picture that. I knew Henry enjoyed watching. I didn’t think he’d be so eager to perform. Maybe there is a video waiting to be leaked. “And what happened?”
He looks at me and I don’t have to see his face to know his eyebrows are arched in a “What the fuck do you think happened, Abigail?” way.
“Was it something like that?” I point to a man in the window, bent over as a mime pegs him.
Henry stifles his laughter. “What impression have I ever given that I would be into that?” He pulls me away by my hand. “I don’t enjoy giving up control.”
“You don’t say.” Henry Wolf is control. It could be a slogan.
I get a playful swat against my ass and a soft “brat” in response.
“Fine, then what?”
“I’ll show you.” It seems quieter along this hall, though the crowd is plentiful. We pass by half a dozen more displays, most with couples having sex, some of women in chairs, masturbating for an audience. “Mostly this.” Henry points out as we pass a cluster of threesomes. He stops at a window with five people—two men and three women—on an enormous bed. “Once, like this.”
My jaw hangs as I watch two women take turns sucking off a man while the third is on her hands and knees, allowing the other man to drive into her from behind, his fist gripping her blond ponytail.
She adjusts her arms for support and reveals a tattoo on the inside of her wrist, of three intertwined hearts.
My jaw drops. That’s Kendra. But the man having sex with her is not Preston. I focus on the other man, his long torso defined but on the slender side. He grabs hold of both women’s heads and holds them close to his cock as he tips his head back and lets out a loud, guttural moan. Streams of cum shoot out of him, hitting the women’s lips, streaking over their masks.
That is Preston.
Did Kendra know what she signed up for when he brought her to New York? I mean, she certainly seems to be enjoying sex with a masked stranger. But is this why she was eyeing Henry so fiercely over dinner? Did she expect him to be joining them in one of these displays?
No wonder Henry disapproved of Preston inviting a coworker to this party. But what could she divulge about the big boss without outing herself? Sex parties and orgies isn’t typical water cooler conversation.
Henry’s dark chuckle curls in my ear. “This should not be a surprise.”
“It’s not. I just …” Henry hasn’t given me detailed specifics about every encounter he’s ever had, but I know his tastes are risqué. He’s been with multiple women before, several times.
But watching this now, and imagining Henry as one of these men, in this tawdry annual event he never misses, where he can do whatever he wants, with whomever he wants …
He uses these rooms every time he comes here. He admitted it.
So what does that mean for tonight?
Just the thought of another woman with her hands—and other parts—on him like this makes my fists clench and my eyes blur with rage. Especially when he’s declared that no one will be touching me.
“What’s bothering you?” He asks suddenly. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings from him.
I look around at the crowd of strangers watching the spectacle. “You’re not going to make me do this tonight, are you?” I whisper. Or at all, for that matter.
The muscle in his jaw ticks. Grabbing my hand, he leads me at a quick pace down the hall and around a corner, this foreign object teasing my core with each hurried step.
It’s different here—still dark and swathed in curtains, but there are closed doors and no viewing windows. A mime in a revealing French maid’s outfit skips along the path with a spray bottle in her gloved hands. When she sees us, she blows a kiss. Even the cleaning staff is in character, and they’re all naughty.
Henry stops at the first door with a glowing light above it, swipes his bracelet across a scanner, and then pulls me inside, shutting the door behind us.
“What is this?” A tiny stall—no more than five by five. It reminds me of a change room, except there aren’t any hooks or chairs, nothing save for a small receptacle mounted to the wall for trash.