Invitation to Seduction: Open Invitation, Book 1 (3 page)

She wasn’t a prude. A prude didn’t give herself orgasms. But this shocked her. Titillated her. Her panties were damp, her lace bra chafed her nipples, and she had the insane need to touch herself. To touch someone.

What made her heart ache, in addition to all her other bodily parts, was the fact that the majority of men in the room were not young studs. They were her age. Her husband’s age.

They were living, breathing, horny proof that something was rotten in her marriage. Her vision blurred, and she sucked in air, almost choking on the sudden tightening in her throat.

Stop pitying yourself.

Deliberately stuffing down the maudlin thoughts, she reached for her glass and brushed warm fingers.

* * * * *

He caught the flute before it fell. Debbie’s expression was a mixture of shock and excitement. As he’d imagined, her arousal scented the air around her, a subtle, sensual aroma that made his balls tighten and his cock jump. He wanted to linger, to talk, to touch his lips to her beautiful mouth. But rushing the moment might destroy it. He wanted her past the point of fear, riding the edge of arousal where she was consumed by what she saw, creamy on the inside, unable to utter a word, where even taking a breath was enough to bring her to orgasm.

“Your champagne?” He handed her the glass, letting his fingers touch hers briefly in the exchange.

“Thank you.”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, blue eyes wide, the dilated pupils attesting to her surprise and innocence amid the decadence in the room. He wanted to bury his cock inside her. She was gorgeous, the kind of woman capable of tying a man’s gut into knots.

He backed away, holding her gaze until he could disappear into the shadowed hallway. He wanted her, Lord, how he wanted her. Still, he was a patient man. He didn’t fear that she would turn to someone else in one of the rooms she explored. She wasn’t ready for that.

No, when she finally decided she needed a man, he’d make sure she came to him.

* * * * *

God. That voice. It caressed her lips, her breasts, then reached between her legs. She watched until the man vanished amongst the hall rovers. She’d longed to touch his hair, run her fingers through the silver strands. He’d dressed more casually than most, a plain, dark, button-down shirt with black jeans. His tanned face didn’t come from any sunlamp but from hard work outdoors. His fingers as they touched hers were rough with calluses. How good they’d feel against her clitoris.

She closed her eyes and pressed her thighs together. What was he doing here? She’d come for the titillation factor and to fantasize about letting herself go. What would a man with that handsome face and honed body need here? Was he married?

The word brought her back to herself. He might not be, but she was. Married to a man who hadn’t made love to her in ages. Dammit, she deserved to feast her eyes on every little detail, had a right to see how the other half lived. A person yearns for what they lack, and with each successive night lying lonely in her marriage bed, the kinkier her fantasies had become.

Tonight was for
her
.

She pushed away from the table she’d leaned against and met a man’s gaze head on. The man who had invited her to have sex with a lick of his lips.
Not you
, she whispered in her mind. In her wildest fantasies, sex with multiple partners or in front of an audience, there had always been a bond with one man, one soul. She didn’t have to be touching him or even looking at him. He was just there, watching her, wanting her, loving her.

The guy with his dick between yellow-clad thighs wasn’t him.

She did, however, lift her glass in the air, tipping it in salute. Then she left the room. God, she felt alive. Tilting her head back, she drew in a deep breath of air laden with the musky intoxication of sex. Voices murmured along the hallway, the high pitch of laughter, the barely discernible moan of sexual release. Activity had picked up. Obviously their little group had arrived much earlier than most.

Passing another doorway, she glanced in and found herself compelled by the sights inside. Again, she entered to stand just inside the door to watch. Vibrators. Dildos. They were being fitted to every orifice, the gender of the user notwithstanding. Some worked the toys alone, but one couple in particular grabbed her attention. The male took the lead, stuffing the biggest vibrator she’d ever seen inside his partner’s vagina. Pumping it, twirling it, making her moan then scream with it.

Debbie’s skin felt suddenly flushed, hot, sweaty. God. Yes. She’d love that. It was so damn exciting that she could feel her nipples rasp against her clingy top.

Then she saw Virginia and Stacy chatting in the corner, watching the activity. She slipped out the door before they saw her. It might be Virginia’s party, but it was Debbie’s night.

Music beat against the soles of her feet. She longed to shed her high heels and let the rhythmic throb travel up her legs to her moist pussy. On the first level below was the wing for performance art, closed off by double doors and rubber stoppers. Performance art definitely sounded interesting. She’d come to watch, to spin her fantasies, and beyond those doors, heaven awaited her. Heaven for a sex-starved almost-forty-year-old.

Weaving through the growing throng, she headed for the stairs. That’s when she saw him a short distance down the hall. The silver-haired man.
Her
silver-haired man. She stopped, one hand on a newel post. He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. Some floozy with bleached hair sloshed the champagne in her glass as she waved her hand about. Clearly he wasn’t listening. Nor was he looking at the woman’s impressive chest.

His gaze stroked Debbie from her hair to her thighs and everywhere in between. Her knees turned to jelly, and she tightened her grip on the post. His eyes seduced her, set her skin on fire.

Her husband’s eyes had never burned for her like that. Desire had nothing to do with age, because this man was older than her husband, perhaps close to fifty. He didn’t hide his years with hair dye. Nor did she hide hers with caked on makeup. Even in the dim lighting of the room down the hall, he would have seen the wrinkles at her eyes, the lines on her forehead.

Yet he’d looked a second time. He didn’t stop looking when she caught him at it. A corner of his mouth lifted, then he blew a kiss in her direction. Oh my God, he was flirting. With
her
.

She laughed. Flirting? In a sex club? Where all you had to do to get laid was crawl onto a lap and pull down your panties? But that’s how his kiss felt. Flirty. Innocent. It was all the more sexy for its very lack of explicitness.

The kiss tempted her to approach. Instead, she tipped her head, smiled shyly, and continued down the stairs as if her legs weren’t about to collapse. As if her panties weren’t wet.

The lobby, which she’d thought immense upon arriving, was now packed to the gills. She squeezed through, lifting another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Hugging the glass to her chest to avoid spilling, she made it to the double doors on the left. They gave easily with a slight push.

Rock music drummed against her ears, and a strobe flashed at the end of the hall, disorienting her. The doors closed behind her with an audible vacuum-packed whoosh. The walls were painted black and littered with small round mirrors that reflected the strobe’s flash. Light spilled into the hallway from numerous open doorways. A woman, her dress a neon orange in the strange lighting, exited one chamber and entered another across the hall.

Debbie peeked through the entrance. Fabric-covered partitions, like the ones forming her cubicle at work, had been set up all around to construct smaller octagonal rooms. Plexiglas filled the cutouts on each of the eight sides, creating long, narrow windows. The neon woman stopped, squinted through the Plexi, then moved on. Others enjoyed the sights, too, couples giggling like teenagers, men alone, women alone. What was inside those partitions? She almost stepped in, would have except that a shout rose from the room at the end of the hall. The strobe room. Debbie had to see what was going on in there.

The vacuum doors opened and closed, sending a gust of air rushing up her skirt. She didn’t have to turn to know he was behind her in the hallway. He’d followed. Stalking her. In another place, she’d have been frightened. Here, she wanted it.

She pushed through the crowded corridor, once more nestling the glass of champagne between her breasts. The cool liquid sloshed into her bra. Perhaps he’d offer to lick her skin clean.

Not that she’d let him, despite the hot buzz in her clit.

The room at the end, with its throbbing music, flashing lights, and surging voices, called to her. She squeezed through the crowded opening and slid along the wall. The show was in progress center stage, mattresses strewn about the floor with couples reclining and watching. Touching. She wondered how often they changed the sheets, then thrust the thought aside. It wasn’t as if she was going to use one.

In the intermittent beat of the lights, a woman on stage slid down her partner’s torso. Debbie didn’t have a doubt as to where she was headed. Was it perverted to so love the feel of a man’s cock in her mouth, the salty taste, the smooth texture of a fully aroused male organ? If it was, Debbie was going to hell for sure. She clenched her fists against the intense desire to join the woman on that stage. Her body wanted the sensations, her mouth wanted the taste. So badly, she ached.

Lips opening, the woman stroked with her tongue, then took his cock all the way in. Debbie’s breath increased and her throat went dry as she savored the show. Her palms flat to the wall, she braced herself, squeezed her thighs together, willing the orgasm to build inside her. Her own juices drenched her panties. On a floor mattress, a woman spread her legs and touched herself. So close to doing that herself, Debbie dragged in a deep breath of air that smelled and tasted of hot, sweaty sex. Oh God, she wanted that cock. She wanted that come in her mouth. She wanted an orgasm brought on by someone else’s touch.

The need was a physical ache behind her eyelids, in her chest, between her thighs. She tore her gaze away before she completely lost control.

And met
his
gaze. He stood by the opposite doorjamb, not more than five paces from her. Watching her, not the sex onstage. He tracked the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the spasmodic clenching of her fingers. In a burst of light, she could see the hard ridge of his cock outlined against his jeans.

She realized she’d smashed her glass against the wall when she’d put her hands there to steady herself. Thankfully, she hadn’t cut herself, but something wet trickled down her calf. Not her own moisture, but the cool lick of champagne.

She knew if she didn’t leave right that minute, she’d drag her stalker onto one of those mattresses and beg for his cock in her mouth. Or worse, she’d beg him to fuck her.

He made a move as she bolted out the door. The hallway was a throng of hot bodies. She pushed and shoved, but she knew she’d never make it to the lobby before he was on her. Instead, she ducked into the room she’d seen earlier, the one with the octagonal cubicles, and hurried around the partitions to the back, praying the man hadn’t seen her.

She clung to the edge of a long window opening and stared sightlessly into the small room created by the dividers. Her body still throbbed to that incessant beat, and her breath hurt her throat as she panted. Closing her eyes, she leaned her forehead against one of the Plexiglas cutouts.

She willed away the image of him filling her. She’d only wanted a little fun; she wasn’t an adulterer. For God’s sake, she didn’t even know him. But that look had called to her starving soul.

“Get a grip,” she whispered, using Stacy’s words. Stacy. And Virginia. She glanced at her watch. Eleven thirty. She wasn’t sure she could survive the next half hour without doing something reprehensible.

Wrong. She’d survived all these years without going outside her marriage. She’d been strong, despite the debilitating needs. She
was
strong. She could re-create this fantasy when she needed to. She didn’t have to be consumed by her desires now.

Opening her eyes, she looked into the small cubicle, willed herself to watch dispassionately. Yet another mattress filled the octagonal room, covered with a silky black sheet and stacked with pillows. Muted lights illuminated the bed. Reclining on the cushions lay a nude woman. Debbie glanced at the other cubicles, at the faces glued to the Plexi, like a fifty-cent peep show where guys jacked off while they watched. She leaned back, checked the glass. It was clean, thank God.

The woman on the bed thrashed her head back and forth as her hand moved between her legs, fully enjoying her own touch. Her hips moved, lifting as she dug her heels into the sheet, striving to reach her peak. Then she relaxed, though the flick of her fingers continued. The scene went on and on, the rise, then backing off to savor. Debbie knew so well how the act worked. Bring yourself to the brink, but don’t plunge over. Don’t let yourself come until your body became a mind of its own, and you couldn’t stop the orgasm if you tried. Those were the best ones.

What would touching herself be like with eyes on her?

Her clitoris began to throb once more. She clutched the edge of the small window. Is that why she’d gotten so turned on watching the woman on that stage? Because she actually wanted to be on that stage? Wanted all those people watching her?

“You like it, don’t you?”

She jerked, but he held her firmly in place, his hands at her hips, his body pushing her against the divider. His scent, some spicy aftershave, intoxicated her.

“Would you like to be there, on that bed, knowing everyone was watching you get yourself off?” he whispered. His voice, deep, husky with seduction, shivered along her spine.

She knew, horribly, that she would. She wouldn’t be able to hold off the orgasm knowing all those eyes were on her, drinking in her moans, perhaps even touching themselves.