FIVE
LUCY
Blown away.
Those are the only words to describe how I feel for the next hour of my life.
I am blown away to the point of complete and utter silence, my fingers clasped tightly in front of my waist, and the edges of my hazel eyes burning because they spend most of those fifty-three minutes wide. Unblinking.
Stunned.
I've read stories about sex parties. After I indulged in a particularly kinky TV show on HBO and Googled a few of the terms that were mentioned, I saw a plethora of sponsored ads for local clubs specializing in the erotic arts on Facebook. Still, I've never witnessed anything like this first hand. Until tonight.
Up until this moment, I believed swingers, real ones and not the people on glamorous TV shows or immortalized within the pages of naughty books, were fifty and sixty-year-old deviants that gathered in grimy clubs to screw away their problems—a sexual solution to an epic mid-life crisis. The venue of this party and the thirty or so people present, however, are the opposite of everything I've led myself to expect.
For starters, the upstairs of the gated home looks like it fell directly out of the pages of HGTV Magazine: New England Edition. It’s decorated in stark white, with a splash of gray and powder blue thrown in here and there. An abstract painting that must have cost a small fortune hangs above the mantle and fresh winter white lilies adorn the gray console table directly behind the white leather sofa. I'm almost hoping Jace will tell me to just wait here, on the couch, because that’s where it’s safe.
It’s a command I’ll gladly accept without so much as a whimper.
He shits all over that wish when he holds out a large hand and demands that I give him my phone. I clutch it to my chest, looking up at him in a daze. “It’s a privacy thing, love,” he murmurs silkily. “So just give it to me and don’t argue.”
His eyes penetrate mine for a tense pause before I shove the phone toward his outstretched hand. He stuffs it into the back pocket of his jeans then motions for me to trail behind the redheaded woman.
“We’re going to the play area,” she tells me with a wickedly suggestive smile, and I release a choked sound.
And once we reach that part of the house, which is the entire bottom level, I realize that the people darting in and out of the rooms on either side of the hallway are just as stunning as she is.
Most of them are my age—Jace's age. While some are just as naked as Boobs McCuffs, who gives my new boss one final, longing look before she disappears with a wiggle of her bare ass into one of the rooms, several are fully clothed or in various stages of undress. When a woman sidles between Jace and me, and her latex jumpsuit squeaks against my skin, I stumble out of her way, clamping my eyes shut.
How did I not see the signs?
The lack of information I found on EXtreme when I applied for the job.
Daisy's blank expression after I asked her if the company made clocks.
That secretive smile Jace himself had given me during the interview.
The intensity behind his gaze when he filled me in on his no camera policy.
The signs were all there, but dammit, why didn’t he come right out and tell me about this? Why hadn't I asked more questions? And even more importantly—most importantly—why the hell haven't I walked out of here and called myself an Uber? So many questions filter through my head that, when Jace pushes me against the wall to make way for a group of people who are passing by, I barely hear what he's saying to me.
The sensation of his fingers closed around my wrists constricts my throat, so all I manage is a hysterical, "Hmm?"
For a lingering pause, he studies my features. His blue irises go from my parted red lips to my flushed cheeks before finally ending at my eyes. Little by little, his mouth tugs into a cocky grin, and my senses take a dive into absolute chaos. He releases my wrists. I drop my arms by my sides, but the buzz still hums in my veins.
It starts at my fingertips and doesn’t quit until it’s spread across my chest.
"You didn't hear what I said?" he asks.
I shake my head.
To my horror, he doesn’t step away from me. Oh no, that would be too easy. Too kind. Instead, he dips his full lips to my ear, his stubble rough against the sensitive spot that always makes me shiver. He pulls in a shallow breath right along with me. "I said we're about to meet B, the owner of this house, so put on your best smile."
B.
Not even a full week ago, Daisy referred to Jace as Mr. E. I can't help but wonder if he's involved in this lifestyle. If, were it not for my presence, he would be one of the party-goers. Although I clear my throat several times, I can't quite find the words to tell him that I understand, so I bob my head up and down.
Standing upright, he signals for me to follow his lead. I trail a few steps behind because I don’t want to look at him. Don’t want him to look at me. He steps into a lavishly decorated room with cushioned walls and Louis XIV style furnishings. The lights are dimmed, painting the room in a shade of red that smears tingles down my spine.
I'm greeted with the sight of two women kneeling in front of a toned, beautiful man, their hands and mouths taking turns on his erection. His pants pool around his ankles, and the look on his face—one I'd seen many times in the happier days of my marriage—tells me he's incredibly close to release.
Oh.My.God.I’m.Watching.A.Live.Blow.Job.
I whip my stare away, centering my eyes on a set of handcuffs lying on one of the chair cushions, angrily asking myself once again why I haven't walked out on Jace.
Speaking up between guttural groans and wild pants, the man with the short cropped dark hair and his dick exposed promises, "Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and I'll show you what I need."
To my relief, Jace drags me out in the hallway. I stand off to the side chewing on my fingernail and looking like the ultimate sex party-pooper. My new boss, on the other hand, strikes up a conversation with every naked person who wanders by. Like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like we didn’t just witness someone getting his rocks off with two women at the same time.
When Mr. B joins us a few minutes later, he's wearing a satisfied smirk and lounge pants that would make Hugh Hefner jealous. He guides us from room to room, where there’s a theme for every fantasy imaginable. “We made that,” Jace quietly says nodding to an elaborate, human-sized cage with manacles swinging from the top bars. When I give my boss a bewildered look, he smirks.
“In fact, we made everything down here. Even the toys.”
Sweet baby Jesus, there is an abundance of chrome sex toys being passed around and used. And taking them all in, it finally hits me:
EXtreme Effects has earned a killing designing for Mr. B.
There are cages, chains, and devices I don't even have names for in the BDSM Room alone. Not to mention the intricate metal bed that's twice the size of a regular king with hooks lining each of the four posts and the headboard in the Couples Lounge. When we reach what Mr. B affectionately calls the Kink Playground, Jace excuses himself and leaves my side. He shows the redhead who answered the door—he calls her Sonora, and she looks at him like he hung the moon—how to properly clasp her cuffs to a large metal X that extends up to the ceiling. Then he leaves her to the mask-wearing man and woman who are anxiously waiting to do … whatever.
At last, we make our way to the Voyeur Room.
We're not the only audience members behind the glass wall separating us from the people occupying the spacious love nest, but I pretend not to notice anyone else who's watching. I’m petrified of their reaction to the show unfolding before us.
Plush, foam cushions and wedges in addition to yet another massive bed decorate the brightly lit space, but the group having sex ignores the furniture in favor of doing the deed on the floor and against the wall. At twenty-seven, I’ve never made love with the lights on. And, to be perfectly honest and prudish, I’ve never watched porn in my life.
Now, my heart is lodged in the back of my throat as I witness another person—scratch that, several other people—have sex in front of me, the lights illuminating every inch, every curve, of their bodies.
Somewhere nearby, I can hear snatches of B and Jace's conversation. Mr. B wants to do a massive upgrade to the Voyeur Room. He wants the cushions and bed removed in favor of a large metal table, one that spins like a Lazy Susan because he thinks a game of “Spin the Body” sounds like fun. My boss strokes his ego, swearing that the man who owns all this has the most brilliant ideas.
Yeah, he’s brilliant all right because all I can do is focus on the scene unfolding in front of me.
I need to look away. No, I should look away. But ... it's damn impossible. With every thrust and sigh, each hair tug and slap of skin on skin, there's a sharp pull deep in the center of my core. This isn't something I want myself, isn't something I'd do under any circumstances, but it doesn't stop the heavy weight from building in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't stop the heat from gathering between my thighs.
And it sure as hell doesn't stop the thrill that plunges through me.
I don't realize I'm gripping the opened collar of my white shirt until I feel a hand on the small of my back and long fingers spread over my skin.
I swallow the moan that threatens to push past my lips.
"Lucy," a low voice murmurs my name. It reverberates through me, seizing me by my core. It drags that breathy sound I was so desperate to subdue from the back of my throat. I fist my hands by my side, willing myself to be professional. To not let this affect me. To not punch Jace Exley in his goddamn face.
Putting on a blank expression, I lift my chin until my eyes lock with his. Jace’s full lips twitch, and I don't know whether he wants to laugh at me or tell me I'm already fired. Right now, I'm not sure I would argue with the latter.
"Yes?" I exhale.
"We're done here." He moves his hand from the base of my spine and steps away from me, toward the exit of the viewing room. "It's time to go ... unless you'd rather stay, that is." Mockery drips from the edges of that statement, and a mixture of scarlet and black spots prance in front of my vision.
Fuck him.
I hate saying that word—hate thinking it—but fuck. Jace. Exley.
I shake my head and slide my palms down the front of my blouse, a wave of mortification rumbling through me when my palms stroke over taut nipples. He must have noticed—there's no way he didn’t—and I shove past him without sparing a glance in his direction.
"I'm more than ready," I snap, my voice twice as harsh as I intend. Because the shock I felt for the last fifty-three minutes has finally worn off. It's been replaced by an even stronger emotion.
And I, other than the moment I found out my ex was cheating on me, have never been more furious in my entire life.