Page 2 of Noire Moon
What she means is the men and women here tonight have free reign to play at being Gods.
I snort. “They? You make them sound as if people in this place are important.”
“Just saying, I wouldn’t mind being initiated… Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”
“You don’t honestly believe that bullshit do you?” I yank my cute cropped bustier down over the soft curve of my belly. Suddenly, painfully aware of how easily it rides up sitting like this.
My outfit falls somewhere between slutty and appropriate for entering a billion-dollar mansion. Because I really had no idea what to wear to a fright night slash orgy. So I settled on a leather-look skirt that hits the middle of my thighs and makes my ass look incredible. My cropped bustier style top is a deep crimson satin that hugs my boobs, but is more about looking good than support. I probably should have considered whether there might be any running involved at this thing.
A haunted house event inside a sprawling mansion supposedly owned by one of the oldest secret societies in theworld. That’s right bitch, give me five minutes and access to the internet, and I can find out nearly anything.
Except, I’m suddenly wondering if you even call it a mansion. Or is it an estate? Or maybe a castle? Who knows what the fuck the obnoxiously wealthy label these kinds of palatial residences.
These are the kind of out-of-touch elites who say they’re heading to their country cottage for the weekend, and it’s actually a twenty-room manor house on prime oceanfront real estate—complete with butlers and walk-in closets bigger than my entire apartment.
Either way, who fucking cares. The reason we’re here tonight is to get spooked, indulge in some depravity if we find the right sexual match, and then after all the debauchery, usregularfolk will make our way back to Port. Rita and I have already agreed our plans involve drowning ourselves in mojitos and occupying a spot on a sweaty dance floor until the early hours of tomorrow. If all goes well before we get to the bottomless cocktails and thumping bass, I might even find a man at this event who knows the way to a woman’s clit. I mean, one can forever hold out hope for a miracle.
Only problem is, my fantasies run a little differently from others. They revolve around more than one pair of rough hands playing with my body. In fact, the best orgasms I’ve ever given myself include dreams where I’m blissfully filled in every hole with perfect cocks.
I don’t want a solitary knight in shining armor to politely sweep me off my feet. I want the dangerous, tattooed man in the shadows, and I want his friends, too.
At the same time.
A girl can dream, right?
Our headlights sweep around a wide bend, and while Rita might know what to expect, I don’t. My jaw collides with the floor.
This place is like someone crossed a Victorian horror with a gothic kid’s wet dream. It’s masculine and bold where it rises up out of the ground, escalating into turreted spires and assorted upper levels.
Lanterns flicker with open flames lining the parking area out front, and a valet service awaits us.
“Holy shit, this place always goes all out.” Rita breathes as she shifts the car in park. Quickly tilting the rearview mirror to check her lipstick. “You ready, babe?”
“Sure.” No. I really don’t think I am. My heart is in my mouth, and I wipe my clammy palms on the car seat.
My door is abruptly yanked open, and I nearly leap out of my skin. There’s an old-fashioned plague mask to greet me instead of a person’s face. It’s fucking creepy. The full mask with a long swooping beak-like nose conceals the valet’s identity, and I’m presuming a masculine figure hides beneath this disguise, seeing how they fill out a three-piece suit. Without a word, they extend a leather-gloved hand for me, and I place my shaky fingers in their grasp as I exit the car. On the other side, I see a similarly dressed figure, also in a plague mask, take Rita’s keys from her.
The air outside feels damp and crisp, the sky now forming a deep shade of purplish black, and there’s a breeze chilling my legs as I stand on the caramel color gravel.
An eerie silence hangs about the place, despite how many people are milling around outside in small groups. Some are taking selfies together, while others are more interested in observing the rest of the gathering crowd.
Already discerning who their prey might be once inside.
“Rita.” A group of impeccably dressed girls call out when they spot us and rush our way. Pretty soon, we’re both smothered in air kisses and compliments about our outfits. I haven’t met these particular friends before, but with each one I’m introduced to, they appear to be an endless procession of immaculate bonestructure and airbrushed makeup. These are the kind of girls who get plucked off the street at random and asked if they’ve ever considered modeling as a career.
Next to them, I feel like a bridge troll. What the actual fuck?
I silently curse my friend for forgetting to inform me we were going to be meeting up with Port Macabre’s very own glamor squad. Holy shit, they are so hot I can’t stop staring.
Maybe I’ll just find a dark corner to hide in for the rest of the night. There’s no way a single person in this place will notice me when they’ll all be dazzled by this buffet of perfectly styled lashes and flawless skin.
Before I can get totally caught in my spiral of self-doubt, all around us, glowing flames in the lanterns flare, pulsing intensely with a whooshing sound that makes the crowd gasp. Then, all of them dim low in perfectly timed unison. It plunges us into near darkness and the giant doors to the mansion swing inwards.
Silently.
Ominously.
Murmurs ripple around everyone gathered as the nervous anticipation begins to climb.
