Hidden Paradise

chapter THIRTEEN



Mac

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, drawing the bathrobe more firmly around himself at the sight of Sarah in the doorway. Behind her a blonde, horsey Valkyrie grinned at him. “Uh, hi, Annabelle. What are you—”

“Surprise, surprise.” Sarah flung off her bathrobe and Mac’s jaw dropped. Her body was tight and slender with high, round breasts—his hands curled in anticipation of cupping them—long, slender legs, a manicured strip of pubic hair. Annabelle giggled and untied the sash of her bathrobe, letting it slide from her shoulders.

Oh, God.

“You know, I was really hoping for a massage,” he said. “My back’s pretty stiff and…”

“Just your back?” Sarah purred. “Oh, poor baby. Don’t worry, we’ll give you a happy ending, won’t we, Annabelle? You won’t feel any pain at all.”

“I can’t f*ck a married woman,” Mac said, rearranging his bathrobe so that his erection didn’t show.

“I’m not married,” Annabelle said. She raised her hand to the back of her head and shook out her hair from its usual ponytail. Honey-blond hair cascaded onto her shoulders.

“Yes, but…” He ran out of words as Annabelle and Sarah twisted in a sinuous embrace together, kissing deeply. This was really happening at the wrong time, in the wrong place and with the wrong woman. Women. He should leave.

“Nice to see you, girls,” he said, wondering where his clothes had gone. “And, uh, thanks for the show.”

He slipped from the table and edged toward the door. He couldn’t help it. He looked back and saw Sarah drop her head to suck one of Annabelle’s generous breasts.

“Shit.”

“That’s not very nice, Mac,” Annabelle said in the sort of voice she used when she was bullying him during a riding lesson.

“Nothing personal.” He took a step away, but somehow his motor skills were confused and he moved in the wrong direction.

“Doesn’t Annabelle have lovely breasts?” Sarah said.

He made a strangled noise in his throat and before he knew it he’d taken yet another step toward them both.

They both giggled and stared at the disturbance beneath his bathrobe.

“I told you he had a big one,” Annabelle said, elbowing Sarah.

“Why are you doing this?” Mac asked.

“It’s for your birthday,” Annabelle said.

“My birthday’s in October.”

“My bad. Wrong date.” Sarah cupped her own breasts and that was the end of Mac’s good intentions.

His bathrobe dropped to the ground and the red silk couch creaked as they descended on it, Sarah in his lap, Annabelle kneeling at his feet, her busy tongue lapping like a cat’s between Sarah’s thighs. His cock pressed up against Sarah’s back, her breasts in his hands.

“Stop,” he said. “Kiss each other.” He dropped his hand to Sarah’s little tuft of pubic hair and explored her slick wet folds while she gasped and moaned and fondled Annabelle’s breasts.

A loud splintering sound followed by the tearing of fabric came from the couch and it canted slightly to one side, depositing them onto the pile of discarded bathrobes. A stack of condoms fell clear from the robes and Mac grabbed Annabelle’s round ass, hauling her to her knees and positioning her the way he wanted.

“Eat her,” he said as he rolled a condom on. He watched Annabelle licking at Sarah’s pink exposed p-ssy as he entered her from behind, and for all it was clumsy and ludicrous and though he had only two hands with which to keep his balance and get as many handfuls of breasts (four!) and butt as he could, it was amazing. Just amazing.

“I hope I remember this when I’m ninety,” he said. They stopped their licking and gasping and moaning and stared at him. “Never mind, keep licking her. Oh, yeah.”

So much to do and watch and stroke and f*ck, all this generous female flesh and seemingly endless appetite; the joy of discovering new ways, new angles and positions to pleasure and be pleasured; the glorious slippery mindlessness and freefall into orgasm. And coming back to himself, finally, tangled together with the other two, he heard above the thunder of his heartbeat, the click of the door closing.

“Could you handle another one, Mac?” Annabelle, her face rosy and sticky, grinned at him. “Don’t think so.” She squeezed his cock. “Good thing she went away.”

“Try some oil,” Sarah said. She’d done some miraculous things, miraculous in a very dirty sense, with massage oil and his ass, earlier. She waggled a finger at him.

“Why don’t you two carry on,” Mac said. “Give me a moment.”

He sprawled on the nest of bathrobes, towels and pillows on the floor and watched with the lazy appreciation of a sexual gourmet as Sarah and Annabelle tangled on the massage table, stroking, licking, sucking. It was a beautiful sight. As for him, he was exhausted, sated, played out, screwed out, f*cked out, spent. Perhaps he’d never get another erection in his life, but at the moment he didn’t care. Much.

But there was one thing he had to know, now that he was regaining some sanity.

“Sarah, Annabelle?”

They looked at him with annoyance, a useless male appendage. “What?” Sarah said.

“Why?” he asked simply.

“I fancy you something rotten,” Annabelle said, smirking.

“And I’ve done everyone else,” Sarah said with a shrug.

Their answers left him confused and dissatisfied. It wasn’t enough. But he’d f*cked women for the same reasons, so why did he feel cheated at being the mark, the target? He contemplated Sarah and Annabelle, shiny with sweat and massage oil, moving softly and rhythmically together. They’d abandoned performing for him. Now they seemed intent only on each other, and he felt a brief stab of envy for women’s ability to have orgasm after orgasm. In fact, he was redundant at this point, too depleted to join them on the table—besides which their combined weight had already wrecked one piece of furniture—and suspecting that they’d push him away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to join them, anyway.

He stood, wincing, and for one moment regretted he hadn’t had a massage where he’d needed it. On weak legs, he made his way to the bathroom, where his clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and dressed.

On his way out, he took a last look at Sarah and Annabelle, who didn’t even look up as he left, then gave a friendly nod to the receptionist who was chatting on a cell phone and barely noticed him, either. He glanced at the clock and saw he had over an hour to shower and change for dinner, and— Oh hell, what if Lou had turned up, as he’d asked her to in his note? When he opened the bathhouse door, it was deserted, to his relief. Or his disappointment. He couldn’t decide.

* * *

HE SAW LOU NEXT BEFORE DINNER as they mingled in the drawing room and his exhausted libido perked up when he saw the impressive cleavage she sported; admirable for a woman with small breasts. She nodded at him, one acquaintance to another, and unfurled her fan, turning away before he could figure if her bodice really was mostly transparent or whether it was just a figment of his overheated if exhausted imagination. As he walked toward Lou, Sarah gave him a small, private smile. She looked as fresh as a daisy.

Viv took his arm. “Quite a shiner you have there, Mac. Should I ask what the other guy looks like?”

“Boxing. You know.”

“I hear you’re sweet on Lou.”

Sweet on Lou. Something struck him in the vicinity of his chest and for one dreadful moment, he thought he was having a heart attack. He waited for pain to radiate down his left arm, realized he was holding his breath and released it in a loud huff. “She’s okay,” he said.

Viv stared at him, the ostrich feather in her headband nodding against his cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay? But anyway, you’d better watch out. The Paint Boys are showing interest.”

“Huh?” He followed her gaze to see her arm in arm with them.

“You know what they like,” Viv continued.

“Paint?”

“Yes. But they also like doubling up.”

“Doubling up?”

“You’re pretty dense, tonight, Mac, for a man of letters. They like threesomes and let me tell you, they’re pretty good.” She gazed at him with concern. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tired. It’s pretty strenuous being a Regency gentleman.”

“That’s what I love about it,” she said, leading him toward the dining room. “All those manly men. If you want to sit next to Lou— Oh, too late. Paint Boys got there first—and Peter’s opposite.” Her voice lowered to a sultry growl. “Hi, Rob. I could take those breeches in for you if you like. They look a bit loose.”

Rob, holding the door open for them, cast a mute appeal, man to man, to Mac.

“Leave the kid alone,” he said to Viv, and pulled her away.

“He’s adorable,” Viv said, running her fan over her lips. A few days ago, that would have driven him mad with lust. “I think he’s a virgin, don’t you?”

“I have no idea.” He pulled out a chair for her. “I defer to your greater experience.”

“But most of the footmen are very yummy.” She peeled her gloves off, watching Mac under lowered lashes.

“Give it a rest, Viv.”

“Okay,” she said with her usual good humor.At that moment, Chris rang the bell and the footmen came in with the first remove, salmon surrounded by shrimps and strewn with fresh herbs, pies and tarts with elaborate golden crusts and bowls of salad that sparkled in the candlelight like green and red jewels.

He tried not to look at Lou, but he couldn’t help himself. She was deep in conversation with the Paint Boys, laughing and flirting and working her way through a large plate of food. As he watched, Jon—or was it Simon?—refilled her wineglass. Easy, Lou. Remember you’re a cheap date.

None of his business, he reminded himself.

She looked down the table, her gaze polite and disinterested, skimming over him as though he was of little more interest than the candelabra.

He’d blown it.

* * *


Lou

CHRIS STOOD TO RING THE BELL for the footmen to clear the table, and Lou noticed how Peter gazed at him adoringly. Chris gave him a smile and a wink. So they’d made up. But when Rob came to take away platters from their end of the table, Peter looked away, his mouth tight. Chris, however, made a great show of laying his hand on Rob’s sleeve, and engaging him in conversation about something on the table.

What was going on there? She told herself sternly not to get involved. They’d sort it out, and if either of them asked for help she’d do her best. Meanwhile, Alan and Cathy, oblivious to everyone else at the table, sitting next to Peter, giggled and fed each other bits of food. So sweet, Lou thought, and wondered if she’d overdone the wine already. But the footmen were bringing another remove: an oyster stew, platters of vegetables arranged in overlapping layers like works of art, sprinkled with herbs, and small roast fowl.

More wine circulated, and the talk turned to the ball that was to take place in a few days. It was Paradise’s first public event, inviting locals, a group of historical reenactors and history and Austen enthusiasts to dance, dine and tour the house. The event would attract media, to give Paradise the buzz Chris and Peter needed. Unfortunately, the current guests at the house had still not mastered many of the dances. “But it doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “We want everyone to have a good time. Lou, may I request the first two dances with you?”

He raised an eyebrow and looked down the table briefly to where Mac was deep in conversation with Viv.

“I’d be honored,” Lou said, tearing her own gaze from Mac. So what if he was flirting with Viv? At least he wasn’t glowering at her.

“Excellent.” Peter began to talk of the media coverage they expected for the event and Simon and Jon joined in the discussion with their decorating scheme for the evening.

“Do you think we should be masked?” Peter asked. “Chris and I think it would add a lovely touch of glamour. What do you think, Lou?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Although, I think we’ll all know who everyone is.”

“We can always pretend.” Peter winked. “Handsome masked strangers—think of the possibilities. And we do have visitors from the local historical reenactment group attending.”

“More women than men, though. Nothing much has changed since Austen’s time.” Chris spooned oyster stew onto Peter’s plate. “And you need to keep your strength up.”