What She Needs (36 page)

He really hadn’t planned it—he really
had
gone to the pool only to catch some rays and relax. And it would have seemed pretty shitty, all things considered, to see her there and not hang out with her. Never mind the instant joy that had come over him when he’d spotted that Civil War book and realized she was there.

Hell, he had no idea. He could only attribute it to a lack of sleep. And that it was October, which meant Christmas was coming, and sometimes he got a little lonely at that time of year. But he handled it fine—he had plenty of friends here to spend the holidays with; the Hotel Erotique was good for turning people into adult orphans, it seemed.

Now he regretted opening up to her because, like so much else he’d done with her, it was just a bad idea—it reinforced the escalating emotions between them.
Idiot
, he chided himself as he selected another period dress for her to wear tonight, this one a more elaborate ice blue brocade trimmed in ivory lace.

Of course, he’d also told her about having had sex with other men—since she’d asked. Even upon realizing it wasn’t as easy for him to talk about as other sex. There, at the resort, it was commonplace—sex was sex was sex and there was no judgment. But with her, maybe he’d feared there
would
be. Still, given how much honesty and openness she’d shown him, he’d felt he owed her the same.

When she’d been surprisingly cool about it, even wanting to see it, the reaction had shocked him—and made him like her that much more. It seemed he uncovered new layers of Jenna with each passing day.

So hell—who knew?—maybe
that
was why he’d spilled to her about his family. Maybe it felt good to share it with someone so nice, so sweet.

Turning to a large chest in the historical section of the wardrobe building, he located a pair of ivory fishnet stockings with a satin bow at the top of each. They weren’t totally period, but they’d look delectable on her—and he found himself getting a little hard already just thinking ahead to what would take place in a few hours.

Damn, he loved her newfound appreciation for sex. He loved how trusting she’d been about letting him in her ass last night. He loved everything about her.

Except—shit—love wasn’t a word he should have on his mind with Jenna or any other Hotel Erotique guest. So he pushed the thoughts aside and found a corset that would give her some insanely hot cleavage—then laughed at himself for being in a position to know so much about women’s clothing.

Tonight’s fantasy would be the grandest she’d taken part in—with more than thirty participants. Most would be facilitators, but this was a rare occasion when seven guests would enjoy the same highly structured fantasy. He’d not originally planned on her being involved in the masquerade, but it fit well with where she was on her journey.

In one sense, he saw it as a reward for her, for all the trust she’d put in him this past week. But it would also serve a greater purpose. The goal moving forward was to give her more power, more choices, to slowly retract and reverse the submissiveness he’d created in her. Before her time here was through, he would even prod her toward the other extreme, pushing her to be dominant, aggressive, to take what she wanted. But tonight’s fantasy was simply about giving her options and opportunities. And he was growing impatient—both professionally and personally now—to see what choices she made.

Of course, giving her so much new freedom would also allow her to regress, to reject the sexual smorgasbord he laid before her, and if that happened, he’d deal with it. But he didn’t think it would.

 

 

Jenna had followed the map provided with her invitation and now found herself in another of those small changing rooms that seemed to be the gateway from normal life into fantasy.

As promised, her wardrobe had been provided and she was almost giddy about it. The dress was very Marie Antoinette—not completely authentic, but close enough. The extremely low-cut bodice nearly revealed her nipples while the ivory satin corset underneath shoved them high, making her feel like a sumptuous courtesan. Otherwise, the frock’s shape was much like the green one she’d donned on the beach yesterday, yet with wider skirting and a few lace panels sewn into the ornate brocade.

Beneath the dress, she wore only stockings with ivory bows at the front of each thigh, and ivory shoes that matched the period. According to the note with the dress, “You have decided to forego undergarments tonight as the weather is warm and you are feeling a bit naughty.” True, and true, she decided merrily enough.

Just as she stood before the mirror in the small room admiring her dress—and her breasts—a woman attired as an English maid came scurrying through the door. “Sorry to be so tardy, m’lady,” she said, sporting a thick cockney accent, “but ’ave you a seat and we’ll fix up your hair right nice.”

One thing she had to say for the Hotel Erotique—they understood the value of details. She couldn’t hide her smile as she sat down at a small dressing table to the right of the large mirror and let the maid begin working. With no mention of the modern curling iron and pins being used, the maid chattered about how the party was well underway and how fancy all the ladies looked.

“And oh, them ’andsome lords in their tight breeches!” the maid screeched, fanning herself. “Some of ’em looks like they got a lot to offer a lady, if ya knows what I mean.” Meanwhile, she styled Jenna’s hair into an admirable seventeenth-century coif, complete with tightly ringed sausage curls falling over her shoulders.

“Off ya go now,” the maid said with a shooing motion when she’d finished. But before Jenna could even get to her feet, the maid held up one finger. “Wait! I’ve gone and forgot the most important thing!”

“What’s that?” Jenna asked.

The maid stepped to a cabinet across the small chamber and pulled out a glittery ice blue mask adorned with a clump of fluffy ivory feathers. It was so beautiful Jenna gasped—and the maid smiled. “Can’t very well go to a masquerade without this, now can ya?”

“Definitely not,” Jenna said, warming to the fantasy even more.

Then the maid carefully fit the mask over Jenna’s head, securing it with the attached elastic band, which she hid beneath certain locks of hair, and ignoring that the elastic was a modern addition.

The mask covered only the top part of Jenna’s face, and her eyes shone vividly through, but it still made her feel sexy and mysterious. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as the maid resumed her previous shooing. “Go now. Ya don’t wants to miss the merriment. But ya best be careful,” she added, winking, “for I ’ear there’s a rascally rogue or two what might try to have his way with ya.”

When Jenna stepped through the door that led to the fantasy, she found herself immediately immersed in seventeenth-century London! Like last night, the sense of being swept back to another era was instantly more profound than in yesterday’s beach fantasy and nearly took her breath away. To one side of the ornate room, a string quartet played, filling the air with classical music. Candles in ornate wall sconces lit the space, drawing her gaze to intricately carved woodwork and brocade-covered walls where period paintings hung. The large parlor buzzed with people in costumes similar to hers—they stood in groups talking, maybe flirting, drinking wine and snacking on fancy finger foods. Some women and even a few men wore tall powdered wigs; others, like her, simply had their hair styled in a suitable way. If she wasn’t mistaken, she spotted Zack beneath a simple black mask, his long hair drawn back in a queue—he was busy charming a woman in a yellow gown and looked surprisingly debonair in a doublet and breeches.

Just then, a hand touched her elbow and she looked up to find Brent, and—oh my—talk about debonair. She wouldn’t have believed he could make the showy men’s fashions of the mid-1600s look so . . . masculine. The dark fabric of his short doublet fell open across his chest to reveal the high-collared linen shirt beneath, and his breeches—tucked into leather boots—were fitted enough to hint at the bulge between his thighs. The small gray mask he wore did little to hide his identity, at least from her. “Lord Sexingham, I presume,” she said with just a hint of playfulness, amused by the silly name.

His eyes returned the emotion. “I am delighted you could come to my little soiree this evening, Lady Jenna.”

“Ah, so my mask does not hide me any better than yours does you, I see.”

He gave his head a dashing tilt. “I would know your beauty anywhere, my lady.”

To her surprise, Jenna felt a blush color her cheeks, and turned away, both utterly smitten and embarrassed by it.

“I trust,” he went on, “that you will find this a most
pleasurable
gathering.”

“As do I,” she replied, and even as she spoke, she realized that, already, the mood of the room was beginning to change slightly, feeling a bit more . . . tawdry than she’d noticed upon first walking in. On a divan across the room, a woman sat perched on a man’s lap, kissing him as he fondled her breast through her dress. And the quartet had begun a new piece of music that somehow felt more sensual as well.

“Come—have some wine,” Brent said, taking her hand to lead her through the mingling crowd. A moment later, she was sipping on a sweet chardonnay that went down easily. And suddenly, she had the odd feeling she should drink enough to get relaxed. She wanted very much to be a part of what took place here tonight, whatever that might be—and like earlier today, she began to suspect something extreme.

As she drank more wine, she spotted another couple—two girls—beginning to playfully touch one another, putting their arms around each other’s waists, starting to kiss. It looked stranger than usual, given the costumes, yet somehow all the more erotic for it.

“You should feel free to follow any whim that strikes you tonight, my lady. After all, we are all safe behind our masks,” Brent said with a wink.

She lifted her eyes to his with a grin, starting to feel the wine a bit. “What happens in 1650 stays in 1650?”

Brent let out a loud laugh and she liked having shaken him from his role—even if he plainly wasn’t as deeply in character as he’d been as a pirate. “Something like that, Lady Jenna. You have quite a keen wit,” he added.

“Thank you. And
you
look quite handsome in your late-Renaissance clothing, Lord Sexingham,” she heard herself say. Damn wine.

Just then, an attractive girl with blond hair, ample curves, and an extravagant beaded mask came scurrying up to Jenna and Brent. Funny how the mask made Jenna focus on the parts of the woman she could see: lush pink lips, seductive brown eyes, and plump, uplifted breasts that appeared ready to burst from the tight laced bodice of her lavender gown at any moment. Leaning into Brent, but with her gaze planted provocatively on Jenna, she said, “Pray, what have you here, Sexingham? I hope you won’t keep this tasty morsel to yourself all night.”

“The lady is most free to dally with whomever she chooses,” Brent replied to the slightly raucous but pretty girl.

“That is happy news indeed,” the lady said, her voice thick with lust—then she boldly reached out to slide her fingertip along the top edge of Jenna’s bodice, just above her nipples, all the way from one uplifted side to the other. “You have scrumptious tits, my lady,” the woman said, leaving the objects of her affection to tingle madly as she dashed gaily off into the crowd.

When Jenna lifted her eyes to Brent’s, his had turned heated—his arousal visible even through his mask. “It would seem the masquerade element of the party is loosening my guests’ inhibitions, Lady Jenna. You cannot be offended by the other lady’s impropriety, however, since she speaks only the truth about your tits.”

The dark desire that had just deepened his voice made Jenna’s breasts heave slightly, and she suddenly wondered if
hers
would be the ones to spill from her dress.

When a sensual female moan met Jenna’s ears, she turned to see a blond man sucking the breast of a woman in a tall powdered wig. The bodice of her cornflower blue frock had been drawn down to reveal just one small but perky tit, and her eyes were shut, jaw lax, as she sighed and groaned her pleasure.

The quartet’s music now quickened, becoming lively, playful, yet expressing an urgency Jenna began to feel in her bones as she observed the debauchery starting to infest the lavish room. She caught sight of another couple on a chaise lounge—a handsome man in a small powdered wig playfully shoved his hand under the lady’s dress, making her squeal in delight, and then purr with pleasure. A moment later, another woman—a redhead in an even redder gown, alit on the lounge on the other side of the lady, soon reaching up to begin massaging her breast, then kissing her lips.

Brent’s warm voice in her ear made her shiver. “Is your pussy getting wet, Lady Jenna?”

She looked up, meeting his gaze behind the gray mask. “It’s been wet all day, my lord.”

“I hope to make it wetter,” he promised.

Jenna bit her lip as hot desire trickled all through her. She kept her eyes on Brent’s, letting him know she was ready—for anything.

When next he spoke, though, he was more Brent than Lord Sexingham. “Tonight, Jenna, no commands, no submission. But I hope you’ll let yourself be free. No doubts or worries. I want you to do what your body urges you to.”

What her body urged her to, huh? That sounded so easy now. So easy that she said, “If you insist,” then pressed herself against him, breasts to chest, cunt to cock.
Hard
cock. A warm purr left her throat as that hardness filled her with pleasure. “Mmm, so big,” she breathed, curling her hands into his ass through his breeches.

“And your pussy feels so fucking soft, my lady,” he whispered deeply in her ear. “Is it hot? Swollen?”

She let out a small moan. “Yes, and yes.”

At that, Brent led her to a plush divan upholstered in burgundy velvet and gently pushed her down onto it, stooping in front of her. She’d just begun to wonder what he was planning when he reached beneath the hem of her beautiful dress, his hands closing warm around her ankles, then smoothly slid his touch upward, to her knees, taking the skirting with him. Her spine tingled as his palms glided still higher, soon revealing the playful ivory satin bows at the front of each stocking, halfway up her thighs. She sat with her legs demurely together, feeling at once innocent and naughty.