Page 92 of The Saint

Nothing seemed out of place as they were dropped off. Their invitation was checked as though it was any other tony Washington, DC, gala. The dark entryway that Beth had led them through days before was lit with long silver tapered candles in sconces and alive with laughter and voices.

She walked in on Camden’s arm. Just like when Amelia had first met him in person at the prison and when he melted into the kitchen crew in a back alley, Camden breezed into the party with enough chill to get them both through the evening.

The candlelit hallway opened into the main hall. Guests wore breathtaking dresses and titillating costumes. Many were naked or wore only collars and nipple clamps.They socialized as though it were any other party, unaffected by the various levels of undress that surrounded them. Waitstaff passed flutes of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. It could have been any charity gala that Amelia had organized if not for the various levels ofundress and signature touches that Esme had to have overseen. Black silks hung like erotic ropes amongst the chandeliers. Aerial performers dangled from them, wearing masquerade masks and not much else. Their glittering bodies twisted and twirled high overhead.

Camden snagged two drinks from a server and handed her a flute. “Want to make a lap around the room?”

She sipped the bubbly champagne. “You’re asking me like I have any idea what we should do.”

“Mix and mingle and see who we meet.”

What if Esme introduced them to someone who was essentially naked? She would blush and stammer and not remember anything of importance. Thank God for Camden, patron saint of chill.

They eased along the outskirts of the room. The guests were a mixed lot: old and young; vanilla and dressed to the nines; kinky and barely dressed. Enough black leather and latex were in the room that Amelia was right to worry that Beth might’ve dressed her like a BDSM princess. But those who donned the leather and latex looked as though it was a choice that defined them. Amelia would have looked like a plastic-wrapped copycat and was happy to let the sheer black lace and double slits announce to the room exactly who she was.

Maybe the dresswasher—or at least who she wanted to be. Nothing in her closet had ever been that thrilling.

They eased by two women having a lively conversation. One of them haphazardly petted a third woman, naked and on her knees, as if she were a submissive pet.

They reached the far wall. What Amelia had thought were provocative performers posing against the wall were women and men covered in paint with their hands tied overhead by ropes and wide satin sashes. They didn’t look uncomfortable and were mesmerizing.

Next to each person on display stood an immaculately and fully clothed partner. Some partners ignored the people tied at their sides. Others spoke with onlookers, discussing their subjects as one might at an art gallery. Still others interacted. They touched and teased. They played. Amelia’s blood raced. She couldn’t look away but didn’t know where to let her gaze land.

“Doing okay?” Camden asked.

She swallowed and wanted to make sure of her answer first. Her body was reacting to what she saw. It wasn’t fear or aversion but curiosity. Bondage was being presented as living art.

He stopped them. “Amelia?”

“I’m fine.” And she meant it.

Amelia glanced behind Camden’s shoulder. He turned toward the couple that had captured her attention. The woman wore a blindfold just like Amelia’s. Other than the sashes binding her hands overhead, shoulders to the wall, and legs apart, she was naked and squirming under the soft torture of a feather.

Camden dipped his mouth against her ear. “Guess their box came with ropes.”

Breathy laughter was her only answer. The idea of Camden tying her in place and touching her made arousal twirl in her stomach. She would be completely at his mercy—no decisions to make, nothing to think about except the pleasure he would pull from her. She shivered.

“We should keep walking.” His palm smoothed down the sheer lace. A trail of sensitive goose bumps thrilled at his touch. “Where to next?”

She glanced at his face. Camden scanned the room. His eyes never stopped moving as though cataloging every person around them. Yet he did it in a way that no one would noticehis roaming search. Looking at their surroundings was perfectly expected. She should try to take it all in the way he did.

“Toward the bar?” she suggested.

He lifted his chin in agreement. Amelia took his elbow as the crowd became denser. She focused on the costumes and dresses. Diamond necklaces were as plentiful as bejeweled collars. Eyes fell on her too. Her dress was appreciated. Her body was as well. The attention didn’t feel good. She clung closer to Camden. “I like the shadows better.”

“Got it.” Camden maneuvered them toward the outskirts again.

They approached the other way, which was lined with living sculptures on pillars. Her breath caught. Camden slowly ran a hand down her spine and pulled her closer.

His chin dipped to her ear. “Still doing fine?”

The way the man kept checking in on her would keep her grounded.

She swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

With the cadence of her breath under control, Amelia was able to face the pedestals again. Each one held a person posed and immobilized by intricately tied knots. Artfully arranged spotlights lit the displays, casting them in silvers, purples, and blues.

Some were blindfolded.

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