Siren and I follow Miles to one of the small, private rooms away from the boisterous crowds and turned-up noses. Stag-headed Red waits inside the door, gripping a riding crop in his right hand. Stripped down to his black-leather skivvies, which appear to be stuffed with a generous bounty, he glances to Miles. A barely noticeable slackening of the skin around his eyes is the only hint of reaction from him, a nice cover for the devotion lurking below the hard exterior.

The room is done up in stunning gold accents, like a treasure cave of an ancient dragon that’s been hoarding shiny trinkets for centuries. A four-poster bed dressed in heavy gold lamé with matching shears hanging from the sides sits atop thick cream carpet. Ornately carved from oak, its posts mimic Corinthian columns with animal heads. Given Red’s apparent deer fetish, I’m guessing he chose this room for the mood.

A wild hunt, perhaps?

My loins practically froth with anticipation.

Red nods to Siren. She returns the gesture, dipping her head just enough to acknowledge him, but not low enough to suggest she’s beneath him. Their eyes hold a little too long to be casual.

They know each other. Maybe they’ve even played together before.

Miles said he’d never met her, but I’m beginning to think I may have been set up. Which would be so like him, the sneaky bastard.

“Let’s establish some ground rules,” Siren says, closing the door. I’m trapped in a room with my ex-husband, his partner, and my fantasy woman. At a sex party.

Nothing interesting to see here. Nope, not at all.

She touches her freckled chest as she addresses Red. “I’ll be called Siren. You already know Vanilla.” She nods to me.

A hint of humor deepens the lines around Red’s eyes. “Call me Red, and my partner is Gray.”

So much for not using real names. Red’s smirk and forced formality tell me everything I need to know. They planned this.

My son-of-a-bitch ex totally set me up.

For my “own good,” I’m sure.

At Red’s right with his head lowered and hands linked behind his back, Miles throws me a knowing grin. He might take a beating from Red and me before this night ends.

“I’m here to watch,” Siren says, backing up to a clam-shaped Victorian settee with thick velvet cushions draped in the same gold as the bed. She folds herself into the mouth of the thing and pulls her legs up. Then she slowly unbuckles the straps of her steamy, black-patent heels and casually flips them to the floor, out of the way. A quick shrug rids her of the ringmistress waistcoat and vest, leaving her upper half in nothing but the red-satin bra. Its sequins wink at me in the soft light. I come this close to blowing a gasket as the mass of ginger curls swishes across her back and tumbles over the freckles kissing her shoulders.

I practice emergency Kegels to tame the raging lust. Or accelerate it. Or whatever the hell she wants me to do with it.

“Fine. You watch.” Red smiles at me. “We play.”

Here’s the part where Siren’s glamour wears off and my senses scream back to life.

“Not the collective we.” I swirl my finger in a circle to include all four of the living, breathing bodies in the room. “You’re going to play. The two of you. I’m watching. With her.” I point my thumb toward the settee but don’t look at Siren for fear of losing my underwear to a sudden heat wave.

Red shrugs. “As you wish.”

Miles keeps quiet. Good boy.

Siren pats the velvet in front of her and beckons me with pouty, crimson lips. I slink over and sit. She slips her arms around my front and unbuttons my coat, which I’d forgotten I was wearing. I must look like a dolt. I start to wriggle out of it, but she stops me. “Let me do it.”

Okay …

Her breath caresses my nape as she sweeps my hair aside and teases the trench coat down my arms. Siren strokes the seams of my buy-on-the-fly dress, pausing at the intersections of pleather under my arms. She slides down the three-quarter-length sleeves, lands at the built-in belt cinched around my rib cage, and fingers the pleats flaring at the waist. She traces the split over my thigh until she reaches the hem a couple inches below my knees. Her hand brushes my leg, rousing an army of goosebumps to attention.

Lost in a swirl of oxygen-deprived sensations (yes, I’m holding my breath. You would too if a beauty like this mapped your entire body from shoulders to calves with her fingers), I barely notice Red talking quietly to Miles.

“Lie against me,” she whispers, and tosses the coat to the floor beside her discarded heels. I do as she asks. I’m painfully aware of her breasts supporting me. If I had a dick, it would be singing “Hallelujah” right now. Her hands wind under my arms and cross around my belly, folding over the buckles strapping me in.

Trapped.

And no place I’d rather be.

“You like watching men have sex?” she purrs, shifting so her legs hug mine on either side. My ass presses into her crotch, and it’s all I can do not to grind against her in protest. But she seems to like being in charge. I’ll give her the control. For now.

“Never actually witnessed it, so I’m not sure,” I confess.

Fingers wander to the exposed V of flesh between my breasts, but she flounders as if distracted. I chance a look at her face. Her eyes are narrowed and fixated on the bed.

Oh, right. Men. Having sex. Or beating each other. Or … something.

I pretend to be interested and shift my attention their way.

Until I become interested and can’t look away.

Miles. My beautiful Miles kneels before Red, a towering, intimidating figure. Red’s massive antlers make him appear twice his actual size. He’s a dark god backlit by a full moon in a forest of gold. Red cups Miles’s chin and scoops his face upward. Eyes meet and seal a connection. Siren and I seem to have been granted viewing rights to the actions about to unfold. But this is observation only. No emotional freeloaders allowed.

“Lie on the bed,” Red instructs, his voice gruff.

Miles rises slowly, carefully, a submissive soldier following protocols branded on his brain by his Master. He saunters over to the nineteenth-century, whored-up mattress and climbs aboard. Legs straight in front of him, his lowers his back to the bed, arms at his sides, and waits for Red.

The stag removes a length of rope from the bedside table drawer and unwinds it lazily. One loop drops out of the circle. Another. Another. Then he mounts the bed. Miles’s arm flings out. Rope flies around it so fast, I can’t track what Red’s doing. In no time, Miles’s left wrist is bound to the corner of the headboard. The right follows under command of Red’s ruthless efficiency.

Red flings the buttons on Miles’s army coat from their eyelets and spreads the fabric open, exposing the ridged, lightly haired chest I remember well. Fingers knead skin. Miles gasps, and Red pops him with a hard smack. “Keep your comments to yourself. Whining is unbecoming of a soldier. If I hear another peep, I’ll gag you.”

That fucker! How dare he speak to Miles that way. I start to rush to Miles’s defense, but Siren holds me back.

“Yes, Sir,” Miles replies.

“Now spread your legs.”

Miles does.

Red slinks off the bed and heads to the foot where he unceremoniously knocks Miles’s boots off. He yanks another length of rope, this one from behind the bed curtain. It snaps like a whip. In a flurry of motion, he binds Miles’s ankles, securing them to the bottom two columns of the bed.

When he turns around, shadows dance within the hollows of Red’s cheeks. A formidable aura of dark power surges around him. The energy in the air changes, amping up from something uncomfortably tense to raucously sexual.

The antlers come off. The real Red comes out to play.

He pounces on Miles, crawling from his feet up, using his tongue as a compass until he reaches lips, which he devours. Red sits atop my former lover’s hips, grinding him to a pulp, arms bulging in hover mode, glutes tight as a virgin’s pussy on prom night. The man has a rocking body. They both do.

I can feel Siren’s smile through the hairs standing on the back of my neck. “Makes you want to jump right in and join the fun, doesn’t it?” she says. Fingers slip over my shoulder and tangle with the pleather edging.

I barely manage a nod.

“So,” she breathes against the side of my throat, “are we jumping in or starting our own show?”

I snap out of one daze to fall straight into another. Did she just suggest we hop the train to Gayville? Last I checked, we were lesbians. At least, I assume Siren is. If not, I’ll make it my mission to convert her.

“Given those options, I’m not sure I can pick,” I deflect. But I’ve already decided. I can’t.

I don’t think.

Not with Miles.

I glance at the gyrating duo twisted up like a pair of thrashing snakes that can’t decide which way they’d rather die—by fucking or fighting. They’re pretty much the same thing.

“Then I’ll choose for you,” Siren coos.

“Uh …” Gulp.

“Get your ass over there.” She angles her chin downward and nudges me forward with a gentle but firm head butt. She has the biggest horns I’ve ever witnessed on a woman.

I bite down the refusal poised on the tip of my tongue because I kinda like this girl and I don’t want to offend her. But I’m not getting in the middle of … that.

Red breaks off an intense kiss, leaving Miles heaving for breath. Aside from the occasional muscle twitch, Miles lies still as Red commandeers a flogger from the drawer and gently flicks it across his chest. I jerk on Miles’s behalf. How does he let that guy just … have him?

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

Fire burns in Siren’s eyes and fans into her cheeks. “Then, I suppose our business here is done.” Sighing, she drags her legs back and scoots to the edge of the settee where she gracefully leans over for her shoes. Plump cleavage taunts me.

Shit. Miles and Red seem oblivious to what’s happening outside of their little eat me, beat me session. They’re no help. Siren didn’t even ask them if it was okay for me to join them.

Surely, they don’t want a woman tagging along on their “date.”

I bite my lip.

But what if they do?

How bad could it be, trying something different? the devil on my shoulder asks.

A threesome would be really different. As in, Letty and Killer Buzz Float different. I’m not sure I’m nimble or steady enough for that kind of rump shaking.

Siren grabs her discarded jacket and stands. “Nice talking to you, Vanilla.” She sighs and starts for the door.

Freckles, Jillian. Look at those fucking freckles. She’s a ’50s lounge singer sent through a time machine to rescue you from your past and show you the future of a brave new world full of bondage and Domination and submission.

I might never get a chance like this again.

I lick my lips and hold out a hand to her. “Don’t go.”

Her left eyebrow lifts. “The only way I stay is if you strut your ass over there and get involved.” Her husky voice murders my resolve. She will leave if I don’t do something right goddamn now.

Stop second-guessing everything, Frost, and just do it!

I stand and turn to the scene on the bed, my nerves shattered.

Okay, Miles. I’m hitching a ride on your dick train. I hope the Red caboose doesn’t mind.