Invitation to Passion: Open Invitation, Book 3 (2 page)

 
    
She started to pant and moan. Colors
swirled behind her eyelids as her fingers multiplied all the sensations.

 
    
“Now,” she cried. Just as her orgasm rose
to the peak, rushing to each and every separate nerve ending, her dark lover
entered her from the rear. She
screamed,
the
pleasure-pain of double penetration unbearable. Then Erik slammed home into her
pussy, deep, high, hard, one last time, and filled the room with his roar.
Lights burst behind her lids, and she came in a miasma of blinding flashes.

 
    
She opened her eyes to the mirror, those
beautiful young bodies tangled about her. She didn’t even remember falling to
the soft carpeting. Breathing deeply, she arched, relishing the delicious ache
in her muscles. Then she collapsed back into the heap of bodies. Ah yes, they
were spent, their limbs lax, their mouths open to drag in air.

 
    
Stroking her fingers through their luscious
locks, she whispered, “You were both wonderful.”

 
    
She lay there in the lee of their bodies
for long, sated minutes, until their respective breaths eased back to normal.
And that was long enough. The best way to end a rendezvous was at its height,
before the rapture of orgasm completely faded.

 
    
“You know, boys, I’d like a moment by
myself to recover.”

 
    
As one, they rolled to their knees,
glorious animals. Erik shook his shaggy mane. Caesar grabbed his cock to remove
the used condom. They both disposed of the remains in the provided receptacles,
then
turned to the piles of shed clothing.

 
    
“Thanks, Serena.”

 
    
“It was great, Serena.”

 
    
She smiled at their good manners. “You’re
both going to make fantastic lovers for some very happy women.” She hoped her
small hints added to their future bliss.

 
    
Propping herself on her elbow, she watched
in the mirror as lean yet well-muscled limbs disappeared into black slacks and
white dress shirts, though the club didn’t have a dress code, and clothing
ranged from casual to ball-gown fancy. People came here for a variety of
reasons,
to have a diversity of needs met. Neither of these
two hunky specimens would leave feeling used by what she’d done with them.
Quite the opposite, she was sure. They were equals in what they’d all received
from the encounter.

 
    
This was the way she liked it.
A swift end to a friendly assignation.
Everybody went away
happy,
and no messy emotions to deal with later on. In her
twenties, she’d desperately desired love. Yet what she’d gotten was more
heartache than joy. She’d searched for Mr. Right, only to learn he didn’t
exist, at least not for her. Thank God she’d discovered she didn’t need him
anyway.

 
    
She’d found her true calling in life,
talking with women, getting them to open up. What she offered was more than a
manicure. It was hearing them, learning, and yes, God, helping them.
She never judged, she listened.
Many found what they needed
through the simple act of sharing. Others needed a little extra help, and she
did whatever she could, in any way necessary. She’d supported herself, but even
more, she
gave
to those women. She’d
made lasting friends. That was what was important to her.

 
    
The door
snicked
shut as her
boys
departed, and she
turned to her reflection, arching her neck and stroking a hand down her throat.
She was agile and strong from her daily workouts, the skin of her face smooth
from her regimen of moisturizers. But it was a fact of life. She was forty-six,
and she wouldn’t have this body or face forever. Which was why she made the
most of what The Sex Club had to offer the two or three times a month she
ventured here. She didn’t want to leave any wild oats unsown, and that left
myriad possibilities, like the sandwich she’d just partaken of. It had been
good, very good. The boys had certainly been surprised and appreciative.

 
    
But sitting before the mirror in a now
empty room, the languidness of orgasm almost faded, she couldn’t help wondering
what was around the corner for her. She could only hope there were other, more
exciting things waiting.
Wilder oats to sow.

 
    
Pulling her knees to her chest, she
stretched her arms out before her, releasing the kinks in her back,
then
perused her reflection once more.

 
    
Oh yes, no matter her age, she still had a
few surprises out there for some lucky young sex club attendees. And maybe, if
she
was lucky, one or two of them would
have a surprise for her.

* * * * *

 
    
Serena was all delicious, hot
woman
. She loved performing. Judson McCord was equally
entranced with watching her.

 
    
Some people came to his club for the
titillation, never actually participating. Some needed much more. Jud
subscribed to the belief that desires suppressed could become needs that burst
out of control, causing great damage to others. So, he provided an exclusive,
private resort to safely act out those needs, clean, no drugs, no fighting, no
divulging of personal information, no stalking. He watched his facility like a
hawk, and if a guest disobeyed the rules, they were out, for good.

 
    
Serena came to the club to watch and be
watched. The last three times she’d ventured upstairs, Jud had been her voyeur.
Once she’d been alone, once with a single partner, and then tonight.

 
    
She disposed of her cohorts in pleasure
with a few gracious words. He revered her confidence, her belief in her own
beauty and power. He admired the pure grace of her feminine lines as she lolled
in front of the mirror. She was a woman who had come into her own, an Amazon, a
true woman of the new millennium. And he wanted her.
Badly.
Not merely Serena, the fantasy on the other side of a mirror, but the real
woman. Stacy Parrish.

 
    
She was aware he knew her real name. He’d
learned it when she first started coming to his club almost upon its grand
opening two years ago. At the time, though he found her attractive, he’d
already decided he wouldn’t indulge with guests. One didn’t abuse the
client-proprietor relationship, and when the need arose, he took his pleasures
elsewhere.

 
    
But that didn’t mean Jud avoided Stacy’s
company. Though she was often frankly admiring of him, she didn’t flirt. She
talked to him without pretense, her open smile more captivating than the
seductive mien with which she graced other men.

 
    
She had a habit of lingering at the club
after a tryst, observing, theorizing about what made people tick. Many times she
shared her studies with him. The more she revealed about what she saw in
others, the more he learned about her. She enjoyed life to the fullest,
savoring great big bites. She was ballsy, smart, confident, droll, and
perceptive, with a streak of caring and loyalty. If someone she cared about was
in need, she dropped everything to help.

 
    
He considered himself lucky to be counted
among her friends.

 
    
She had more facets than a diamond and
shone brighter than a cache of jewels. He dreamed of burying his fingers in her
hair, its red tones softened by streaks of blond, as it curled about her ears
and nape. Her body was another treasure: long, firm legs and taut, voluptuous
breasts, while her face was the equal of a Greek goddess. But she was so much
more than her outer casing. Somewhere in the two years he’d enjoyed her
company, his casual attraction had turned to desire. A few weeks ago, he’d
treated himself to a little harmless voyeurism. And damn if his desire for her
hadn’t turned to a bit of an obsession. Now he was considering breaking his own
rule not to mix business with pleasure. Hell, after tonight, he wasn’t
considering it. He’d already decided. He wanted her, and he was going have her.

 
    
Jud had experienced all manner of
pleasures. In his younger, wilder days, there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t try
as long as it held the slightest appeal. But a purely physical connection was
like a drug. You got high, you came down,
you
walked
away. He wasn’t going to walk away from Stacy Parrish after a few nights. And
he sure as hell wasn’t going to share her. All that was left was to let
her
know that.

 
    
“Hope you enjoyed yourself, sweetheart,” he
whispered. Tonight was her last fling with anyone other than him for a long
time to come.

 
    
There was no better time to put his plan
into effect than tonight, when she came downstairs for her usual tête-à-tête.
In her quest to live life to its fullest, Stacy chose muscle-bound youngsters
who would fawn over her, her high more about their adulation than about her own
pleasure. Brief encounters were like skimming the cream off the top of the
milk. You savored the sweetness, but you never got to relish the long, deep
swallow. Your cup always needed to be refilled.

 
    
It was time he showed her what she’d been
missing.

 
    
The club sported a couple of bars, each
offering a respite from the frenetic activity. Though sex wasn’t prohibited, it
was more discreetly engaged in. The salon Stacy chose was relatively small, yet
the mirrors on the walls and ceiling gave the room a larger feel. The tables
were surrounded by leather stools, the bar itself shiny chrome with lights
running along the glass top, illuminating it from beneath. It was beyond her
how the surface seemed perpetually clear of smudges and spilled alcohol. That was
a testament to the club, which was always immaculate, its marble floors
gleaming,
its
private rooms pristine.

 
    
It was also a testament to the club’s
owner, Judson McCord, who was now behind the bar pouring champagne into a
flute. The buzz of quiet conversation masked the tap of her stiletto heels as
she wended through the mostly full tables. Her tight-fitting black cocktail
dress riding high up her thighs, she climbed atop a stool, just as Jud pushed
her champagne across the bar.

 
    
“Your drink, Serena, my love.”

 
    
“You’re such a charmer.” Sparkling bubbles
glistened in the peach-flavored cocktail. That was another thing about Jud, he
knew what his guests preferred, and he provided, right down to meaningless
endearments that nevertheless made a woman feel special.

 
    
“So, Derek flaked on you again?” Glancing
in the mirror behind him, she smoothed the spaghetti straps of her dress,
liking the way Jud’s gaze followed her hands, even though she knew he had no
interest in her.

 
    
He was a gorgeous specimen at six feet, his
black tux molding to his muscled chest. He hadn’t an ounce of flab. Though he
had to be in his late forties, his hair was still dark, dusted only with a
distinguished smattering of gray and a streak at his temples. She suspected his
ancestry included Italian descent, his skin swarthy and his nose patrician.
Laugh lines flirted at the corners of his eyes, and he had the most amazing
lashes for a man, long and thick.

 
    
He put his hands flat on the bar. “Derek’s
got issues. So I make certain allowances.”

 
    
She’d never understood that. Jud impressed
her as a man who demanded perfection. “Why do you make allowances for him?”

 
    
She truly wanted to know. She’d been coming
to the club for almost two years, and rather than sleep with Jud, she preferred
to keep him as her confidant, a man she didn’t have to impress, pacify, or
tame. After a session, she liked to unwind in Jud’s company. He was funny,
insightful, and attentive. He could, however, be closemouthed about things, and
one of them was Derek, who’d started as a bartender about a year ago.

 
    
God. Jud wasn’t gay, was he? It would
explain why he’d never made a pass at her. No. No way. He was too...manly, too
virile. Plus, she’d seen him eye the ladies, mostly younger women in their
thirties. If, however, he nipped off for a quickie, Jud was the epitome of
discretion. She’d never seen him partake of the club’s many pleasures.