Flashes, images, and sensations whipped through her mind. It was like being in a room of mirrors and spinning around.
Nothing was clear, except for the giddy feeling of joy.
Hands touching her, so many hands, caressing and pinching. The pain was there, but there was a warm suckling between her thighs.
The heat was incredible.
As her orgasm swept through her, the images broke and fragmented, like that vision-mirror, shattered.
She swayed for a moment. He was holding her hand, that handsome stranger, and tugging her across the room. He passed swiftly through the throngs dressed in their Valentine’s event finery. Corsets and clamps, stockings and jock-locks. Leather and latex, velvet and fur, nothing was verboten. The crowd ebbed and flowed with the pulsing rhythm of the music, accompanied by the snap of crops, the begging moans of bottoms, the wicked laughter of Tops.
They passed a Mistress she knew, dressed in her cross-garter boots, thigh-high and polished to a sheen. Her corset lifted her ample bosom high, yet hid her nipples. Her arms were encased in mesh glovelets, and in her hand, the coil of a long whip. The end almost touched the floor, a scant inch from the bent knee of her slave. There was about her an implicit air of being “in charge”. It wasn’t the boots, the whip, nor the corset, but something inherent in her. She recognized that same je ne sais quoi…in him.
“You missed a spot.” The Mistress spoke gently, critically peering down at one gleaming boot. “Well, get to it, slut!” Her sub lowered his head, dipped his face down to her booted toe. Cara craned her head, watching, as his tongue flicked out.
“Come along, stop staring.” He slowed his pace for a moment, looking at her with that smile firmly in place. Yet she saw, and felt, the fire behind his calm expression.
“Where are you taking me?” Yet, she knew. She’d been here before. William had taken her to one of these back rooms during a scene.
“You know very well where I am taking you, cher amour.”
She stopped. Tried to stop. But his grip on her hand was firm, and he propelled her forward, pretending, or perhaps not even noticing that she was resisting.
“You must face your fear, mon cher.”
“I am not your dear.”
“No, ma salope douce, you are far more than just my dear, oui?”
She knew, though she wasn’t certain how she knew, that he had called her his sweet slut.
“I don’t know you.”
“Remember, cher? The night sky over the Seine, the warm breezes as you lay beneath me?”
She shook her head. No. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Yet the haunting image burst into her mind, her hand outflung on the chaise, opening and closing in rhythm to the stars. The cool touch of the night wind against her heated flesh, the tease of it against her breast, bringing her nipple to full, tingling firmness. The stars, so many of them against the velvet sky, then lost to her view as he rose above her, claiming her body with his….
Again, she stumbled, and again, he held her steady, his hands against her torso, almost cupping her breasts. Her back was to the wall, so cool through the thin silk of her gown. Heat poured from him. Her hand was on his shoulder, the firm reality of flesh under her fingers belying his status as a ghost.
“I don’t understand.”
How she wished her voice would hold steady. He leaned against her, his heat scalding her. If this was a repeat performance to what happened in her bedroom, she wanted none of it.
” Deny me if you can.”
He paused a moment, his body hot against hers. Her nipples rose to caress his chest, her breath caught in her throat.
“You want. I feel it. As you do, cher. You may pretend, but your body leads the way to truth. It yearns for me, for us, to be complete again.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
A woman tittered nearby. It broke the spell he seemed to have woven around her. She pushed at his chest.
“Get. Off. Me.”
“I know you are angry, ma petit.”
She glared up at him. She was angry. Furious, even.
“I feel nothing. Nothing.”
She broke away and dashed back into the crowd.