Ingrid

Red.

Breath drawn, I step onto the crimson carpet and into Damien Shore’s Valentine’s party.

The palatial ballroom is dolled up in shades of red from top to bottom. Burgundy roses glaze the domed ceiling from which pendent Baccarat chandeliers bathe the room in a champagne glow. Scarlet silk tapestries braided with blushing lace wind up the grand pillars. High tables swathed in ruby taffeta stand against the walls lined in carmine velvet. In the middle of the room, bartenders in vermilion serve cocktails on the garnet-topped counters of the circular bar like cardinals ministering to a particularly wayward flock.

Even the crowd is in red, as prescribed by the invitation I’ve already surrendered to the sentry. The women are garbed in fiery couture and the men in dashing black and white tuxedos with maroon ties. All have donned cerise masks over their faces, another prescription.

With my own beaded mask in place, I make my way towards the bar. The hem of my satin gown, a take on the cheongsam but with most of the back cut out, drifts silently across the carpet. A few heads turn, some with wide grins and lipstick smiles, which I repay with my own.

I don’t really know anyone at this party, though I do recognize some guests—a seasoned actress, an ex-NBA player, the on-and-off frontman of a rock band, a senator’s mistress. No mask can hide the stink of fame—or infamy. As for those I don’t recognize, I can only guess they’re just as reputable or as wealthy, since they were all hand-picked by Damien Shore’s secretary.

I may be the lone exception, having barely snagged an invitation by calling in a favor. Still, who’s to tell? As long as I relax, drink, and wear a smile, no one will suspect I’m just a budding underpaid journalist in search of my first big scoop—which my instinct tells me I’ll find tonight.

“Found you.”

Stopping just a few feet away from the bar, I turn my head at the voice. My eyes rest on a man close to six feet tall. Tawny brown eyes peek out from a mask of red and black halves, the same shade as his side-swept hair. Even with the mask, I can tell there’s a handsome face to go with the tailored dinner jacket that hangs from his broad shoulders. That square, dimpled chin below a pair of thin lips is making my heart stop.

What better way to become Lois Lane than to have my own Superman?

As he stops right in front of me, I swallow the lump in my throat. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, making his shoulders look even broader. “Ever since I arrived, I’ve been looking for the most beautiful unaccompanied woman at this party, and now I’ve found her.”

I snort, shifting my gaze to the crowd. “You mean the only unaccompanied woman at this party, or the first one you saw to play your tricks on?”

“Or maybe just the only woman who hasn’t had a drink. What can I get you?”

I glance at the bar, hesitating. Normally, I’m against men I don’t know paying for anything for me, but since all the drinks are free, it should be fine.

I grin, tapping my fingers on the faux crocodile skin of my clutch purse. “Margarita.”

“Good choice.”

I watch him head to the bar, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear while I appraise the view. As he leans on the counter, I catch a glimpse of a backside chunky enough for me to take a bite out of.

Damn.

Just then, he turns, his eyes finding mine. Blushing, I look away, lips pursed.

Why the hell am I acting like a teenager with raging hormones and a first-time crush when I’m already twenty-four?

Oh, right. It’s because I’m a virgin, which is practically the same thing. Still, I’m an adult, plus I’m working tonight. I should have a better grip on my emotions.

Get a hold of yourself, Ingrid. He’s just a man, even if he is the hottest man you’ve ever met. And you’re a woman, even though you’re a virgin.

Touching my forehead, I frown. I am so screwed.

“Is everything okay?” my crush asks as he reappears beside me, a glass of neat whiskey in one hand and my cocktail in the other.

“Yes.” I force a smile as I face him, tucking my purse under my arm.

“Here’s your margarita.” He hands me the salt-rimmed glass. “Blushing, just like you.”

I pause, fingers around the stem of the glass. He noticed?

“And everything else in this room,” he adds, lifting his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

I lift my glass, set the straw aside, and take a sip, longer than usual to help me swallow my embarrassment. Afterwards, I grimace at the sourness of the cranberries and the salt-tempered bitterness of the tequila, the alcohol leaving my throat ablaze.

“Good?” my companion asks, eyebrows raised.

I nod, my expression returning to normal. “Thanks, um… What shall I call you?”

I know the masks are there for a reason and names aren’t supposed to be given. Still, I have to call him something.

“Whatever you want,” he answers with a mischievous grin.

Hunk comes to mind, along with Delicious, Babe Magnet and Stud.

“Clark,” I blurt out instead.

For a moment, his eyes narrow, then the grin returns. “Then I shall call you Lois.”

Shit. I didn’t just blow my cover, did I?

“I trust you can keep my secret identity?” He winks.

“Of course.” I rotate my glass and take another sip.

“So, what do you think of this party?” He tucks a hand in his pocket as he glances around the room.

“Too red.”

His eyebrows furrow. “You don’t like red?”

“I find it… too bold,” I answer, brushing a bit of salt off the rim of my glass with my fingertips and placing it on the tip of my tongue. “And maybe a bit gruesome. It is the color of blood, after all.”

His eyes travel down my gown. “And we’re all sharks who get excited by the sight of it.”

I cross my arms below my breasts, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

His gaze burns into them. “After all, it is the color of danger, and what is life without flirting with a bit of danger?”

Instinctively, I wrap my arms tighter around my chest, and my purse falls as a result. I hurry to pick it up, kneeling on the ground, only to find myself staring into his crotch as I lift my head.

Fuck.

I’m in danger, alright. At least, my virginity is.

Clark offers me his hand. “You don’t have to kneel before me, Lois. If there’s anything you want, you need only ask.”

I grab it as I straighten up, forcing my wobbly knees steady.

As I try to think of something to say, my eyes fall on his ebony bow tie. “You’re not wearing a red tie.”

He glances at it. “Nope.”

“But the invitation said…”

“To wear something red apart from the mask,” he finishes the sentence. “And how do you know I’m not?”

On impulse, my eyes dart to his crotch.

He chuckles, showing me his watch with its crimson strap.

I blush. “Oh.”

“Frankly, though, I don’t like rules very much,” he says, putting his hand away again. “And I can’t say I’ve always followed them.”

“Mr. Shore seems to like rules, though.” I place my purse back under my arm. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“You mean he likes making his own rules.” He lifts his glass for another sip.

As I do the same, I narrow my eyes at him.

How much does Clark know about Damien Shore?

Just then, the music and the crowd go silent. Heads turn towards the stairs, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a red suit is ascending, a young woman in scarlet and diamonds on each arm. Midway, he pauses, turning to the crowd with a wide smile.

Damien Shore.

“Speaking of the devil,” Clark mutters.

Casually, I flip my collar, pointing the tiny camera I bought on eBay a few days ago at the staircase.

“Good evening, beloved guests,” Damien Shore starts his speech with raised arms, dark eyes peeking above red sunglasses. “And welcome to my annual Valentine’s party, the grandest Valentine’s party in Texas, maybe even in the US and in all the world.”

The man to my left raises his glass. “Hear, hear.”

“As some of you know, every night is a party for me. But tonight, as I do every year, I’m throwing this party for you so that you can all have a taste of the fun I’m having. Just don’t forget my rules.”

“What did I tell you?” Clark whispers in my ear.

“First, no taking off masks,” Shore goes on. “Neither yours nor someone else’s. Two, no throwing up on the carpet. There are plenty of bathrooms for you to use. Three, no tattling. Whatever you see or hear here, you leave here.”

Yeah, right. That only confirms my suspicion that there is something wrong going on here.

“Finally, no sleeping with my household staff, not the bartenders or the maids or the guards or the horses in my stables.”

The crowd erupts into laughter.

“Although kissing and groping is allowed. Whatever you do, please—and this is the most important rule—enjoy.”

Applause breaks out. I stop the recording and join in, clapping.

As the applause dies down, Damien Shore continues up the stairs. Some of the men follow him, some with their women. Beside me, Clark gulps down what remains of his whiskey, disposing of the empty glass on a silver tray carried by a passing waiter.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he says, taking my hand and planting a kiss on it. “It was a pleasure.”

My mind races.

He’s leaving me already? The disappointment of my imminent abandonment stings, but that is not all. Clearly, Clark is planning on joining those other men and Damien, and clearly, they’re up to something.

I have to go with them.

“Wait,” I call after him as he walks off. I gulp down my cocktail and hand my empty glass to the waiter before following him, placing my arm securely in his. “It wasn’t enough of a pleasure.”

He grins. “Would you like to have more, then?”

I nod.

“Good.”

Holding my hand, he escorts me up the long stairs. At the end of them a pair of heavy wooden doors open on an even longer, dimly lit corridor.

As my platform heels clatter on the wood and the music from the ballroom fades, my heart pounds and a voice in my head tells me I should turn back. Indeed, the wall sconces that resemble medieval torches make me feel like I’m marching into a dungeon. The paintings that hang between them, eerie paintings of torture and dark sexual encounters, lend a somber feeling to the air.

Still, I continue. Another voice is telling me that whatever story I’m looking for waits at the end of this corridor. I’m not leaving until I have it.

Finally, we reach the end.

“Are you sure about this?” Clark asks, pausing before another pair of heavy wooden doors, these lined with black velvet.

I give another nod. “Yes.”

He nods at the men in black guarding the doors and they open them. We step in, my breath leaving me as I find myself in a different world entirely.

Here, in this room, just as spacious as the ballroom below but darker, naked men and women with their hands in chains and collars around their necks dance on pedestals, some around poles, some inside golden cages. Others are blindfolded and suspended from the ceilings or tied to crosses on the walls, moaning as the guests lay their hands on them. Others still are already being fucked on the tables and chairs scattered throughout the room, while some are simply being bent over and whipped, their screams of pain and pleasure filling the air.

My mouth going dry, I clutch Clark’s arm tighter, suppressing the shiver that threatens to climb up my spine as I record the images—a shiver of fear.

And at the same time, surprisingly, one of excitement.

Even as my mind finds the scenery revolting and wrong in many aspects, my body appears to be reveling in it. My underwear are getting moist beneath my gown as heat pulses through my veins.

What is up with this place?

A maid in black offers me a drink and I take it, gulping down the contents of the shot glass in an effort to calm my nerves. I have no clue what it is, but its taste is surprisingly pleasant.

Spotlights turn on to shine on a stage at the front of the room. As the curtains are drawn, I see Damien Shore sitting in the middle like a king on a throne, naked women—no, girls and boys who look barely over sixteen—lined up on either side of him.

He claps his hands. “Let’s begin the annual Valentine’s auction, shall we?”

The crowd roars and the auction proceeds.

I stand there, too shocked to move.

How can Damien Shore, and all these other people, participate in such a barbaric event? The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and my fists clench. All of my principles shout for me to stop it, to help these helpless boys and girls, and I vow to do so. My article is already being written inside my head as my hidden camera records the show.

This will be your last Valentine’s auction, you sick bastard.

The first girl gets sold to the highest bidder, who takes her away.

“Excuse me.” I turn to Clark. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Without waiting for him to say anything, I leave his side, slipping into the crowd and emerging on the other side. Catching a glimpse of the girl and her buyer, I follow them down another corridor, where they disappear into a room. The man is so busy with his new purchase that he leaves the door open, and I peek in, letting my camera capture everything even as I close my eyes and try to shut out the sounds of their fornication.

I try… and fail.

The creaks of the bed springs, the slapping of skin against skin, the sucking, the groans, gasps, moans and cries of pleasure all seep into my ears and into my mind, conjuring images of another man—Clark—and myself on a bed. Sweat beads on my skin. My gown feels too warm, too tight, especially around my aching breasts. My underwear are drenched.

What is this sensation?

My shaking hand goes to the front of my gown, grabbing a fistful of satin over my wildly beating heart, which seems to be in the throes of a fever. A moment later, my purse slips and hits the floor.

The sound of the leather against the wood vibrates through me like the clanging of a gong, breaking me out of my trance.

And I’m not the only one.

The man on the bed stops and turns. “Who’s there?”

Hastily picking up my purse, I leave the room, my head still spinning. Standing in the corridor, I wonder what to do next, but before I can come up with a solution, I hear footsteps approaching and see blurry shadows of burly men cast on the wall.

Shit.

Suddenly, a hand grabs my arm, pulling me. Again, my purse falls to the floor. My wrists are placed in handcuffs behind me as my body is pinned against the wall. I open my mouth to scream, only to gape as I recognize my assailant.

“Clark?”

In the next moment, his hand grasps my chin and his mouth descends on mine, robbing me of breath. With my lips parted, his tongue immediately slips in, and my knees buckle at the taste of him. Heat slides all the way to my toes.

“Hey!” one of the guards calls seconds later, approaching us.

I nearly whimper as Clark takes his mouth off mine. “Yes?”

The guard stares at us, frowning. “Get a room. Literally.”

He unlocks a door and pushes it open, pointing to it.

“Thank you,” Clark says, picking up my purse and ushering me into the bedroom. “You’re very kind.”

“Just get in,” the guard says, shutting the door as soon as Clark is inside. “You have fifteen minutes,” he calls from behind it.

My eyes grow wide as I sit on the edge of the king-sized four-poster bed.

Fifteen minutes? For what?

“Well, you heard the man,” Clark says, tossing my purse on the bed and sitting beside me. “We have fifteen minutes to fuck.”

“What?” I turn to him, eyes even wider.

He’s got to be kidding.

“Isn’t that why you came here with me, Lois? Isn’t that why you were spying on that couple?”

“I wasn’t…”

“Why, then?” He strokes my cheek. “Why are you here?”

“I…”

I try to think of an excuse but fail. The lips he has latched to the side of my neck and the finger circling my nipple through the satin empty my mind even as a gasp escapes my lips.

Clark’s right. I did want this.

I do want this.

Now that I have my scoop, I might as well indulge in a little fun.

When he kisses me again, I kiss him back with all the passion I’ve built up since puberty, shivering in delight as my tongue mingles with his. He pushes me down on the bed and the soft mattress is like a cloud beneath me. My hair unravels past my shoulders as he rakes his fingers through it.

With each caress of our tongues, the combination of whiskey and tequila creates a far more intoxicating cocktail, muddling my brain and making every inch of my body burn.

His hand cups my breast and I moan into his mouth, my flesh stirring to life beneath his palm through the thin layer of satin. He unbuttons my collar, his hand slipping in to pinch one of my swollen nipples. I gasp, the pain and the pleasure mixing to create ripples of heat that travel through all my veins.

Suddenly he pulls away. Seeing my lipstick all around his mouth, I can’t help but chuckle.

“What’s funny?” he asks.

“Now you’re wearing something else red,” I tell him, planting another kiss on his cheek to prove my point.

He wipes it off with the back of his hand, frowning at the red tint.

“Oh, is that so?”

Without warning, his mouth finds my neck again, sucking on the patch of skin with so much force I whimper.

“What did you do?” I ask, frowning as I rub the skin after he’s done.

He grins. “Now you have something else red, too.”

This time he kisses my neck tenderly as he continues to rub my nipples. That wickedly wet tongue and his naughty fingers draw more gasps and moans from my lips and more of that warm, sticky liquid from between my legs.

When his hand creeps beneath my gown to stroke the stain on my underwear, I tremble, weak and dizzy from his touch.

Lifting his head, he holds my gaze as he pulls my underwear off. The cotton slides down my thighs to my ankles. Then Clark, too, slides down until the top of his head is all I can see.

He slips my underwear off my ankles and lifts my gown, then spreads my legs and disappears between them.

“Clark, what are you…?”

I stop talking as I feel his tongue dipping into the source of that warm, sticky spring. My thighs quiver and my back arches. My arms long to be free so that my fingers can hold on to something, anything, just so I won’t be swept away.

“Clark, my hands…”

It’s no use, though. He just keeps going, that tongue of his going places I never knew existed, doing things I never knew a tongue could do. And all I can do is throw my head back against the mattress and from side to side. My hands wring the sheets beneath me even as the metal cuffs dig into my skin, and my eyes squeeze shut as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure wash over me. My cries bounce off the walls.

“Oh God…”

Then his tongue pulls out, brushing against my swollen nub and setting off sparks throughout my body. My eyes fly open. My mouth opens in a silent scream.

A few more flicks of that tongue and I come undone, my body shaking and then shattering into pieces, the air sucked out of my lungs, tears blurring my eyes.

Closing them while I gasp for air, I feel like all time has stopped, like I’m drifting away aimlessly. Vaguely, I feel hands grip me, turning me around. Then a sudden, hard slap on my bare skin anchors me back to reality.

Opening my eyes, I find myself staring at the white sheets beneath a veil of my hair. My face is shoved against them and my knees are pressed to the carpet.

Another slap on my backside, and I wince. A third, and I whimper from the pain even as a fresh jolt of excitement surges up my spine.

“That’s your punishment for behaving badly tonight,” Clark hisses. “And this is your reward.”

Gripping my hips, he enters me with one thrust, ripping a cry from my throat. Something stings, but only barely. My body is still numb from pleasure.

He moves, and my body jerks with his, the bed creaking beneath me. This time, it’s not just my imagination. It’s real. His cock is sheathed inside me, rubbing against the spots his tongue merely grazed, reaching into the depths of me.

“So this is what it feels like to be fucked,” I whisper.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Faster,” I tell him. “Harder.”

The pleasure from my orgasm, which hasn’t really died out, bursts into flames once more. My stiff nipples rub against the satin of the sheets, adding to the friction between my legs. My quivering thighs grow wetter. A strand of saliva trickles out from the corner of my mouth as my moans turn into new screams, eclipsed only by the slapping of skin against skin. My knees dig into the carpet.

Clark’s grip tightens, almost bruising, as he speeds up even more. Then, with a sound between a grunt and a growl, he stops, pushing himself to the hilt as his quivering cock fills me with an explosion of warmth. The depth and force of that last thrust sends me into my second orgasm. It’s a tremor compared to the massive quake that was the first, but it still leaves me breathless and trembling.

For a while, Clark lies still on top of me, panting. Then he gets off me and frees my wrists. I rub them as I slide off the bed to sit on the carpet.

“Twelve minutes,” he says, glancing at his watch after he puts his pants on. “That’s a record.”

“Yes, it is,” I agree.

I can’t believe I lost my virginity in twelve minutes.

“But was that pleasurable enough for you?” he asks as he zips his pants.

I grin sheepishly as I rest my still reeling head on the edge of the bed. “It was super.”

Now, this is how Valentine’s Day is supposed to be.

~

That wasn’t at all how it was supposed to be, I think as I pop a pain reliever into my mouth in the kitchen of my apartment. My head feels like it’s splitting in half, being squeezed like an orange and pounding like a drum all at the same time.

What was that I drank, anyway?

What’s even worse, though, is the sticky, sore feeling between my thighs—or rather, what it means.

How the hell could I have been so horny and so foolish as to give away my virginity to some stranger? Granted, he was hot, but was I really that desperate? What was I thinking?

I place a hand over my mouth, an idea dawning on me.

Was there something in that weirdly pleasant-tasting drink, maybe? Well, that would explain things. I just hope it doesn’t have any harmful long-term effects. At any rate, it’s over now. Last night is done and gone. At least I have my story.

As soon as the effects of the pain reliever have set in, making my headache bearable, I go back to my bedroom to check the now stained gown I wore to Damien Shore’s party. Ignoring the stain, I check the collar. My eyes grow wide as I realize the camera isn’t there.

What the…?

I sit on the bed, trying to remember when I last had it on.

I still had it when I was… spying on that guy who bought the girl from the auction, so I must have lost it afterwards, when…

I blush, remembering what happened next.

I stand up, shaking my head as I pace the room.

“No. No. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.”

Still, it has happened. The camera is lost, probably having fallen off while I was having sex with that handsome stranger.

“Ugh.” Groaning, I run my hands through my hair.

What have I done?

Suddenly, my phone rings. I grab it from the nightstand.

“Hello.”

“Ingrid? Didn’t you say you were going to Damien Shore’s Valentine’s party?” Samantha, my colleague from The Dallas Times, asks.

“I did,” I tell her, sitting on my bed. “Why do you ask?”

“Let me guess. You found out something.”

“I did.”

“Something about Damien Shore liking whips and handcuffs and auctioning off underage girls?”

I straighten up, eyebrows furrowed. “How do you know that?”

Samantha sighs. “If that’s your story, Ingrid, I suggest you write a different one, because that one’s already been published on the website and will be in print by tomorrow.”

“What?” I stand up. “But who wrote the story?”

“Actually, it’s…”

“Conner Blake.”

I say his name under my breath as I march towards his desk.

I’ve heard of him, alright, although I’ve never met him in person.

Even though he’s less than thirty, he’s one of the top reporters at The Dallas Times. Some say that’s due to the fact that he’s willing to do anything for a story, even sleep with a source—which isn’t hard given his legendary looks.

At first, I thought he might just have stumbled onto the story the same way I did. What with all the masks, I couldn’t tell if he was at that party. But then I took a closer look at the pictures and realized they were exactly the ones I took. In particular, the last one, with that buyer and the girl, couldn’t have come from any other camera.

How on earth did he get those pictures? Well, he could have stolen my camera, but how…?

I stop a few feet away from his desk. There’s a man seated behind it, a man with chestnut brown hair and thin lips, a slight cleft on his square chin, features apparent with or without a mask.

No way.

My purse falls from my fingers and my knees turn to mush so quickly that I have to lean on a nearby table to keep myself standing.

“You?” Conner stands up, the shock and recognition in his eyes mirroring the horror in mine.

Going around his desk, he walks towards me, eyes on the ID hanging from my neck. “Ingrid Halfield? You work here?”

I raise a finger. “Don’t play dumb with me. You knew who I was.”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Liar,” I spit out.

“I only knew you were a reporter. I didn’t know for which paper.”

I point my finger at him. “You stole my story.”

Conner shrugs. “You dropped your camera. I simply found it and used it.”

“You used me.”

“As you used me.” He steps forward. “Admit it. You thought I was a handsome billionaire who could get you into the inner circle so you could get your scoop. And I did. Then you got in trouble and I saved you.”

I pull my shoulders back. “Saved me?”

“Plus, you had the time of your life, so, really, I don’t understand why you’re complaining. You got the better end of the bargain.”

I slap him. “How dare you!”

Conner raises an eyebrow as he rubs his reddened cheek. “So, we’re into that now, are we?”

I feel an urge to slap him once more. Instead, I clench my fist at my side and square my shoulders. “You, Conner Blake, are the worst man I’ve ever met.”

“Really? I thought you were quite smitten with me, Lois—I mean, Ingrid.” He scratches his chin. “Didn’t you say I was…”

“You’re an asshole,” I continue. “You’re even sicker than Damien Shore is. I hope you rot in hell.”

Picking up my purse, I stomp to the elevators, seething.

“By the way,” he calls after me, “your gown was lovely. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

I raise my middle finger at him. “You know what? If you think you’re all that, why don’t you shove your dick up your ass?”

I step into the elevator, banging my head on the wall after the door closes.

How could I have sex with that… that filthy scumbag? I don’t even know what’s worse—that he stole my virginity—and yes, he did steal it—or that he stole my story.

I let out a deep sigh.

Well, one thing’s for sure—I’m leaving this paper. And then I’m going to forget about him and everything that happened last night. I’m going to pretend none of that ever happened and I’m going to get a better job and I’m going to get a nice boyfriend, have better sex with him and maybe marry him after a few years.

As the elevator doors slide open, I take a deep breath and step out, head and shoulders held high.

Today marks the beginning of the rest of my life, and nothing will stand in my way.