Page 166 of Deliverance

Ever since I met this man, my life has somehow become all about parties…and sex.

Wonderful sex. With cuddles, food in bed, and silly chats afterward, and the things he makes me feel when we’re together are the things I didn’t think I’d ever get to experience. Not after Rhys. Not after being humiliated by him for years, not after being called names, not after being forced into doing what I didn’t want for so long that I forgot what my body liked.

And with Zander, everything seems to have fallen together. Or at least, the parts of my life I’m able to control. Like my art and my career. Other parts that my ex is still holding hostage have grown somewhat insignificant. And that’s entirely Zander’s fault. Being with him leaves me no time to worry about the piece of paper that would sever all my connections to a man whom I gave eight years.

A shudder runs through me at the thought, but I shove it down and concentrate on styling my hair. It’s long, longer than it’s supposed to be, reaching the small of my back, but it’s still better than the wrong color.

When the phone pings again, announcing Zander’s arrival, I take a quick second to evaluate the fruits of my labor, then grab my purse and my jacket and head downstairs.

“Ms. Kadence. You look amazing.” Bidal beams at me from behind his desk. “Going out tonight?”

But I don’t credit looking and feeling amazing to the dress I found in a small shop in West Hollywood, I credit it to Zander’s skillful lovemaking…or fucking. Depending on the day and mood. “Costume party,” I say, my mind slowly drifting back to the other night when I stayed at Laguna again and was treated to two earth-shattering orgasms. One of them happened in front of the fireplace. And the other in the shower right after.

“My mother loves that movie.” Bidal grins, totally unaware I’m thinking about sex as I dash outside, my eyes locking on Zander’s Jeep parked by the curb.

He’s behind the wheel and I spy the tight black top I instructed him to wear. His hair is wild and falling over his broad shoulders, and he looks nothing like Johnny. His gaze rakes over me hungrily when I slip into the seat beside him.

“I can’t wait to take this dress off you later tonight,” he rasps in my ear and kisses the side of my mouth, his intoxicating scent clinging to me.

I rest my palm on the nape of his neck and stare at him, drinking in his features. “And what if I say I’m not wearing any panties?” I joke and instantly have to swat away his curious hand that slips between my thighs. “Nuh-uh-uh.”

Zander pouts. “Are you really not wearing any panties or you’re just teasing?”

“Well”—I fasten my seatbelt and rearrange my skirt—“you’re going to have to wait to find out.”

“I don’t even get a little peek?” he murmurs, and the deep sound of his voice has me melting.

“Later.” I grin and mentally pat myself on the back for riling him up so much.

It’s good to keep things exciting.

Zander manages to steal another kiss and then steers the Jeep into the Friday night traffic.

The warehouse Bebe found is in the heart of downtown, just a couple of miles away from my studio, and by the time we get through the madness packing the city streets, it’s nearly nine and the adjacent parking lot and the entire block are abuzz.

After dropping off the car at the valet, we pick up our wristbands from the security guard at the downstairs entrance and load into a vintage freight elevator operated by an attendant. The structure is a historic gem, built sometime during the twenties if my estimation based on its architecture is correct. Even the smell is so old, I can’t place it. It’s not anything unpleasant. Just forgotten.

Zander makes a few comments about the graffiti decorating the back wall of the car as we begin to move, and in return, I lean into him, and the need to feel his warmth overwhelms me. I can’t explain this phenomenon, but I don’t ignore it when it happens. I get my fill. I touch him as much as I must to know that he’s real, to know that we’re real.

Once the elevator comes to a stop with a loud thud and a shake, the attendant pushes both the inner door and the scissor gate open. Then we step into the dimly lit expanse of the top floor that stretches on until it reaches a tall doorway with an arched grill, which leads into a massive room filled with dozens of spinning disco balls.

Zander turns his head to look at me as we walk down the hallway and his gleaming smile makes an appearance, sending my heart thumping against my breastbone.

“You’re a bad influence,” he supplies, a wild spark entering his sky blue eyes.

“Why is that?”

“You made me wear a costume again.” He pinches the front of his shirt and I can’t help but drool at the way the fabric stretches across his chest and the black pants wrap around his long, graceful legs.

Sometimes, I wonder if I blink, will he disappear, and the thought chills me to the very bone marrow.

“Well, at least I’m not making you wear makeup again.”

He scowls, but my gut tells me that he’s open to anything really. After all, this man is the partial mastermind behind the idea of The Deviant.

A remix of “Billie Jean” welcomes us when we enter the room. The music is booming against the cement walls and tall stained glass windows. The drinks are flowing and people in various costumes are rocking the dance floor.

Zander’s grasp on my hand tightens a little as we push past the knot of guests that have on what appears to be Princess Bride ensembles, and I catch myself on the thought that while the movie is definitely very 80s, the outfits do seem weird against the backdrop of colored spandex, glitter, and teased hair.

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