Weston grabbed my arm and emitted a low laugh. “I believe the marquess and the marchioness are here. This should make for a fine evening.”

He whirled his domino over his arm, the long nose of his plague mask poking me in the cheek. I brushed him away, suffocating beneath my own mask. With that and my fake beard, I thought I might pass out from the heat of the candles illuminating the room.

“Don’t make trouble, Weston,” I murmured.

“Oh, the marchioness and I are dear old friends.” He nudged me, placing a glass of wine in my hands. “You two should become acquainted. Richly acquainted.”

Scanning the hall, I sought out Audrey Byrnes, looking for her dark curls and petite form, but I only met with the blank stares of masked strangers. Their black dominos shimmered in the pale light, turning like shades toward the naked women roaming through the crowd and serving wine. They wore masks of black velvet and lace that swirled down their faces and chests in intricate curlicues, contrasting sharply with their pale skin.

Opening ceremonies for the Gathering of the Phoenix would begin soon. Part of me wished Audrey would stay away, but another part of me longed to stand near her, feel her heart quicken beneath my palm as my other hand stroked her thigh, her breasts. The image of her parted lips, the moonlight shimmering in her bright green eyes sent a shot of desire right to my cock, and I adjusted myself beneath the long folds of my black cloak. What would she make of this masquerade? Would she find it disgusting? Would she find it scandalizing? Or would it excite her? My hands clenched at my sides, hating myself for the ache for her, for any reason to be near her again.

“But she’ll be preoccupied tonight,” Weston said, interrupting my dark thoughts.

“Miss Byrnes?”

He threw back his head and laughed, his teeth flashing beneath his mask for a moment. “My god, man, is that all you can think about? No, not Miss Byrnes. The marchioness, Lady Aberthorne. They are doing an initiation tonight.”

Panic gripped my chest, and my eyes gazed across the room again. The Gathering of the Phoenix, or “The Gathering” as those in the know called it, was a neo-Dionysus cult. An excuse for rich, bored aristocrats to indulge in all manners of debauchery. Not that I was in any position to judge. This was my third time in attendance, and the entertainment was certainly exciting, if a bit historically inaccurate. I had not experienced a female initiation, but I had heard they had a reputation for getting out of hand.

I took another sip of wine, reminding myself not to imbibe too much. The revelers around me had no such inhibitions, and the crowd buzzed, wild laughter filling my ears. The hollow sound of an organ piped through the chamber, and a low drum started to rumble in the pillars edging the great room.

“Is that you, Sultan Saeed,” Lady Elliot’s high-pitched voice rang out through the chamber.

Lord Weston whirled around. “Lady Elliot! Miss Byrnes!” he cried.

With a deep exhale, I turned, coming face to face with the tiny, nymph-like form of the Irish goddess. Her curls were twisted tight up from her face, her fair skin near translucent beneath a black dress and cloak. A simple porcelain mask lined with gold covered almost the entirety of her perfect face. No one would recognize her except for those full lips. Lips I had sucked on, hungered for, crushed to my own. Remembering my role as the sultan, I gave her a deep bow and muttered something in Arabic.

“Sultan Saeed,” she whispered with a low curtsy. I forced my gaze to remain on her face. “He must be quite shocked to find us here,” Lady Elliot said.

Weston bowed. “Believe me,” he said. “The sultan is no stranger to carnal appetites. He may not worship the pagan god of Dionysus, but they have far more licentious rituals in Arismia.”

“How scandalous!” Lady Elliot squealed, and I grated at the sound of her shrill voice. She teetered against Audrey, gulping down a goblet of wine. Her mask was an intricate, sapphire-studded affair, and she batted her eyelashes up at Weston. That was a disaster in the making. Weston had a new lover every night, it seemed. All the women of London hungered for the passionate poet to warm their beds. He adored them, showered them with romance and verse, and then dropped them as soon as they became the least bit attached. Lady Elliot had her own fair share of scandal, but she was no match for the infamous Weston. He would leave her crying soon enough.

Weston and Lady Elliot wandered off through the crowd, and my attention returned to Audrey. I smiled, wishing more than anything I could speak to her, ask her about her life in Ireland, about her writing. I had dashed out that morning to purchase The Chieftain’s Daughter and had read it cover to cover when I should have been working on my case studies for tomorrow. Her descriptions of her homeland, the wild heart of Roisin and her love for the English lord who betrayed her family haunted me. I could not understand how such a tiny woman held such a great world in her head, such depth of feeling in her heart. Standing in front of her, I felt grateful for my mask and for my performance as the sultan. If I had spoken English, I would have surely stuttered like a schoolboy.

The crowd pressed on us, and I moved closer to her, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut grass and lemon. She stood so fair, so delicate, her long fingers clutched onto her wine goblet, her eyes bright and shining through her mask. A shot of annoyance flared through me at the bustling crowd, and I gazed above her head in search of some quiet corner. I wanted to hear her voice, the music in her words, her sweet, lilting accent.

Leaning up, she pressed her hand to my shoulder, motioning for me to stoop down. She cupped her hands to my ear, the brush of her breath sending a shot of desire through me. God only knows what sort of witchcraft this woman possessed to turn me into such a rabid creature.

“I haven’t stopped thinking of you since last night,” she whispered.

My cock turned to stone, my heart pounding. She thought I didn’t understand her words, but even if she had spoken Arabic, the rise and fall of her chest, the flush of her pale skin told me everything I needed to know.

The drumming swelled and the milling crowd raided the chamber, pushing and shoving closer to the platform in the middle of the room. She pressed against me, and I grasped her waist through her long black cloak, clutching her tight against my chest. Her back pressed against my cock, and I thrust my hips forward in response. Her belly swelled beneath my hand, and her lungs rattled out a long, shuddering breath. I set my wine glass on a tray held by a passing footman, allowing my other hand to throw my domino around her like a shield. I held her tight against me, my arm trapping her as I rolled into her again.

Her hand slid down my thigh, lodging my hip against her. She lifted her chin, exposing her long neck to me. I didn’t dare kiss her. Not here. Not yet. But my lips brushed against her smooth white skin, and her spine arched. I pinned her back with the flex of my arm, willing her body to submit to mine. To mold to mine. She stared at the platform, her face blank. We were two strangers in a crowd, our black cloaks blending into one. Everyone’s attention was focused on the ritual about to begin, and no one noticed the way my hand slipped down into her bodice.

Her breath hitched, and I made a low sound against her bare shoulder, willing her to still. She breathed out, moving her arm to allow me greater access. Her breast was so full, and my fingers drifted down to her tiny nipple, rolling it beneath my thumb. So pink. So perfect.

The doors boomed open and the candles guttered. Audrey stood on her tiptoes, trying to see what was happening on the platform. The gathering murmured around us, and I pinched her nipple hard, reminding her of my presence. Her gaze may have faced forward, but I wanted her body to belong to me. No matter what transpired, I wanted to be the one to make her wet, to make her come beneath my hands. No one else.

She let out a long sigh, and a man standing next to us stared over in our direction. I met his gaze beneath my mask, and I snarled, gnashing my teeth.

Mine.

He looked away, drifting away through the crowd.

I leaned down, pinching her harder. Her nails dug into my silk tunic, and I whispered in Arabic. “I’m going to bury myself inside of you.”

My heart raced, the freedom of another language giving me the kind of liberty I had never known. She let out a long exhale, her hand slipping to the waistband of my trousers, lingering in the V between my abdomen and my cock.

“I’m going to drench you in my come, my Irish goddess,” I said, again in Arabic, recalling some of my education back in the brothels with Weston. Those beautiful ladies had taught me all their dirty words. And their even dirtier deeds.

Her backside pressed into my thighs, and I rubbed my cock up and down the small of her spine, my movements slight, fractional. I moved with the rhythm of the crowd as it swayed gently to the drumming, building and building, faster and faster.

“Watch and imagine all the terrible things I want to do to you.” I palmed her breast, my fingers spreading wide across the tender flesh.

A gong sounded and the naked women in the crowd pushed their way through the black-robed figures, surrounding the platform with their heads bent in submission. They began to chant in broken Greek.

Audrey’s keen mind caught all of it repeating the incantation under her breath. “Dionysus,” she whispered. Then she belted out a laugh that startled me. “Goodness, these ladies need a new tutor.”

I took hold of her nipple again, and she twisted her neck to look up to me. I saw her sly smile out of the corner of my eye, but I kept my attention rapt on the women who danced wildly around the priestess. Their hands waved in the air, their legs twisting and turning across the marble floor in perfect choreographed movements. Audrey was smart. Well read. She knew what would happen next.

“I hope the ritual is a bit more accurate than their Greek,” she said, as if reading my mind.

I stifled a laugh into her hair. God, she smelled like late summer. Like lemon cake. Like something hot and humid. Like sex.

She pressed her hand over mine, and her hips shifted, parting her legs beneath her black skirts. Taking hold of my other hand, she brought it down, down across the silky fabric until finally pressing it against her mound. She was such a demanding little thing, but I refused to give her what she wanted. I wanted to wait. I wanted her to see. Her hand settled over mine, and I buried my fingers deeper between her legs…and then stilled. She pressed, but I was stronger, and I remained firm, emitting a low sound of warning in my throat.

The priestess gave a speech in Greek, but my mind drifted far away, still teasing Audrey’s sweet little nipple. Around us, the members of the Gathering danced and swayed, gulping down red wine by the gallons. Some of the revelers openly kissed and fondled, but not us. I wouldn’t make a spectacle of my wild Irish girl. Beneath my domino and her skirts, I would seek out her hot sex and claim it for my own.

But not yet.

The dancing women stilled with the second ring of the gong, and they gathered in a wide circle. From the doors at the other end of the chamber, a loud roaring began, and the male initiates entered. Satyr masks covered their faces, their bodies oiled, making their chiseled muscles gleam like marble. Their cocks dangled loose, some at half-mast as they danced and fondled the female initiates. The women remained still as the men’s hands ran up and down their hips, cupped their breasts, sucked on their necks. The drummers pounded, the sound reverberating in my chest, and the satyrs grew braver, stroking their hardened cocks against the women, rubbing them against their thighs, the clefts of their backsides. The female initiates never moved, and if they felt any pleasure, their masks never revealed it.

Audrey’s body stiffened at the sight of the male horde, and I teased her mound, reminding her of my presence. She would have nothing to worry about as long as I was there. I would not let another man touch her.

And what happens after tonight?

I pushed down the sudden flare of rage. The hard reality. Dr. Joseph Moorland. Son of a grocer. Not enough money to keep a wife. Not enough to keep a woman such as Audrey Byrnes.

But she had said it herself. She never wanted to marry. She had loved someone once, but who was he? And how had Castlevane taken him away from her?

I realized I had grasped too hard, and my hand softened against her breast. Had I hurt her?

She reached up and pressed my hand against her chest in response. Hidden in her skirts, her fingers inched up across the back of my palm and beneath the cuff of my tunic. She traced lazy circles around the inside of my wrist even as she undulated her backside ever so slightly against me. I let out a low moan beneath my breath, my sac heavy in my loose trousers. I wanted to throw her down on the floor and take her right then, but I breathed in a deep inhale, appeasing myself by inching deeper between her thighs.

Another gong sounded, and my chest tightened, the third stage of initiation about to begin. The drumming stopped, and an abrupt silenced filled the hall before the priestess began her chanting again. The satyrs found their places in the circle, their chins held high, and the squeaky sound of wheels echoed across the marble walls. Four satyrs pushed a platform out onto the floor. Four carved planks created a wide square, and a young, masked woman dangled from it, her arms and legs spread wide. Even with her mask, she was blindfolded and gagged, her ash blond hair hanging in loose waves across her breasts.

Audrey grabbed my arm, and took a small step forward. Always ready for battle.

“What are they going to do with her?” she hissed, not to me in particular.

Dislodging my hand from her bodice, I caged her close again, pulling her back beneath my domino. I mumbled something in Arabic, but my heart leapt in my throat. I wanted to tell her so many things. How the women from the Gathering came willingly to be initiated into this silly cult. How this woman was no doubt some bored lady from the aristocracy who couldn’t find pleasure in her own husband otherwise. Weston had spilled all the secrets behind this ridiculous club. Of course some members took it seriously, but for most it was an excuse to indulge in darker appetites.

I nodded up to the woman tied to the posts, making soothing sounds and running my hand across Audrey’s shoulder. She glanced back at me, peering up through her mask. Her gaze flitted to the woman then back to me. Some understanding passed through her eyes, and she exhaled, settling against me again.

A slight smile spread across my face, and I whispered in Arabic to her. “You would look so beautiful tied up like that. Perfectly open and undone.”

She shivered, her spine arching against my cock. Folding her tiny hand over mine, she sent it back to her mound. I grasped at her skirts instead, inching them up. Her chest heaved, her body a ball of fire against me.

The doors boomed open on the other end of the chamber. Audrey turned and gasped.

A man stood in the threshold, a giant bull’s head mask balanced on his shoulders, the long horns glinting sharp and firm. A great fur cape covered the man’s shoulders. He wore no other clothes, but carried a black leather flogger in his hands. The bull made its way through the parted crowd, slapping the flogger against his thigh, the snap echoing loud in the chamber.

The drumming began again, low at first but swelling with each step. Reaching the platform, he paused and stared at the woman dangling there, her body quivering in her bonds. I closed my eyes, imagining Audrey hanging there, her long dark hair down her back. With one hand on her flank, I pressed her hard on my cock. With small movements, she rubbed her backside against me, and I thrust my hips into her again while my fingers clutched on her skirts, moving her petticoats aside. I lingered on her thigh, brushing my hand back and forth.

Snap.

The flogger cracked through the air, landing hard against the woman. She lurched forward, her breasts pushed high as she fought against the bonds. Audrey startled, and I responded by pressing my thumb against her clit. She emitted a small whimpering sound, and I grabbed her other hand, guiding it into her bodice.

That’s it. Pleasure yourself, little one.

I brought her hand over her nipple, showing her what I wanted her to do. She sighed, and I took hold of her fingers, forcing her to pinch and pull and rub. She was pliable, her spine melting in my arms. I dislodged my hand, and wrapped it tight against her waist.

Snap.

The flogging went on, a blush creeping up the woman’s body, her back arched. She moaned through her gag, her head lolling.

Snap.

The flogger embraced her with its dark tentacles, brushing over her pink skin before the bull brought it down again.

Audrey stared ahead in wonder even as she massaged herself beneath her cloak. She emitted tiny mewling sounds with each crack of the flogger, and the sound of it almost sent me over the edge as I pushed against her backside.

My fingers explored her, her opening so hot and wet. I groaned and slipped a finger inside her, barely a hairsbreadth. But enough.

Audrey’s body shook with a sharp spasm, and I caught her close in my arm. I shoved another finger inside, but didn’t move. Instead, I allowed her sex to expand around me, to pulse and contract. I didn’t want her to come too soon.

The flogging continued, and the drumming swelled, joined in now by the organ. All the attention remained focused on the platform, but the smell of sex and desire filled the air with a musky, heady scent. The dark figures began pairing up, caressing themselves or each other. Pretty soon, the floor would be a frenzy of lust-filled bodies, but the show hadn’t climaxed yet.

I moved my fingers deeper inside Audrey, curling them and massaging her inner walls with the slightest of movements. I emptied her, spreading her wetness across her folds before reaching her tiny nub of pleasure, massaging it before sliding my fingers back into her again. The rhythm continued with the hard slap of the flogger, and she slinked her body against mine, the teasing motion of her hips making me impossibly hard.

The bull roared on the platform, waving the flogger in the air. A gong sounded, and the women came forth this time, untying the initiate and folding her in their arms. She staggered forwards, her body a map of bright red stripes. They placed her face down on an altar, kissing her and caressing her the whole time. Her long hair fanned around her, and someone produced a basket of flowers, casting petals all over her body.

The bull roared again, and the drumming reaching a fever pitch. The women pranced away, leaving the woman alone and spread eagled before its towering figure. The initiate rolled her hips into the altar, inviting the bull to take her. He grabbed onto her flank, pulling her to her knees.

“Is this what she wants?” Audrey breathed. “In front of all these people?”

I grabbed her tight in response and dug my fingers in deeper, impaling her, forcing her on her tiptoes. Her muscles tightened and then released, her walls pulsing around me. I longed to ask her what she wanted, to hear her desires pass across her lips. The dirtier the better. The need for this woman overwhelmed me, driving a fever to my brain. I let out a deep breath, and it tickled her cheek. She nestled the side of her face into my shoulder, and I moved my fingers quicker inside her. Her knees buckled, and I propped her up with my arm, nudging her to remind her to keep teasing her nipple. Another small moan escaped her lips, and I inserted another finger inside, spreading her wide.

We stared up at the platform, and Audrey caught her breath as the bull grabbed onto his swollen phallus, stroking the skin back and forth in preparation for the final stage of the initiation. Gripping onto her hips, he rammed himself inside with a great roar, the music and the drumming swallowing his bestial cries. I thrust my cock hard into Audrey’s back, gritting my teeth and trying not come against my trousers. My fingers dug deeper into her, spearing her, her body molding to mine. Her hips gyrated, her body lost in the fucking, the drumming, the hollow organ music. I clutched onto her waist and forced her to bend to me, to give in to the pleasure.

On the platform, the bull rammed into the initiate with frantic thrusts. Like an animal, he pounded the girl, her backside quivering with each brutal stab of his cock. The bull threw his head back and howled, and the initiate’s body shook with spasms on the altar, writhing in ecstasy.

I plunged as deep as my hand would allow into Audrey, and she let out a moan, her spine arching. A shaking began in her knees and swallowed up her limbs until she collapsed against me, her orgasm spent completely.

The bull raised his hands, his spent cock still buried in the initiate. He shouted something in Greek, and the satyrs and naked women swarmed them, the orgy officially beginning. Naked servants brought out endless jugs of wine, and the sound of sucking, slurping, kissing consumed the chamber, the music blaring in my ears.

Audrey’s pulse slowed, and with the gentlest of motions, I slipped my fingers out of her, forcing her to face me. Her eyes glittered through her porcelain mask, her full lips parted. I folded my arms around her, planting a kiss on the curve of her neck.

Her eyes grazed around the room, taking in the bodies contorting and writhing in the candlelight. She shook her head and looked up at me. Her hand slipped down my trousers and she grabbed my cock, her small fingers gripping me hard. “Let us find a quiet place. Alone.”