The Black Room: Door Four Read online

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  The game of strip poker is well under way, the table is full of chips. The whiskey is flowing and they’re only on the third hand. The men are all drinking like fish, except Killian, but they are all focused on the game and the unusual winnings.

  I’m carrying a small silver tray laden with a bottle of whiskey and an ice bucket. My job is to move from chair to chair, man to man, refilling their glasses, and offering more ice. But it’s more than that. In this game of strip poker, I’m the only who will be losing any clothing.

  My apron is gone, and so are my shoes.

  Each time I bring a man a drink, I must endure his eyes on me. Killian seems able to follow the card game without ever really taking his eyes off me. He sees the way the men all look at me, and he allows it.

  I pour a measure of whiskey into a crystal glass, and then gently drop in an ice cube. The man whose glass I’m refilling is short and stocky, muscular, goateed. He leans back in his chair as I refill his glass, and then he tilts his head to the side, eying me. He spares a glance for Killian whose face remains impassive, giving nothing away.

  I feel a hand on my knee. Sliding up my thigh. Cold, clammy, gripping a kneading handful of my bare ass under my skirt. I shudder, twisting out of reach. I look over at Killian, who I know saw it. His eyes are narrowed, but he says nothing. Does nothing.

  The others notice what is going on and they observe Killian’s lack of interference.

  A few minutes later, it happens again. A lecherous smirk, fat fingers breezing up the back of my thigh, under my skirt, massaging, kneading, cupping my ass cheek. Again, I look at Killian to stop it, but he doesn’t.

  The game continues as men pitch in chips, calling and seeing and drinking. And as the game heats up, hands continue exploring my ass and thighs.

  Then things change. One of the men left his glass near the middle of the table, shoved away in frustration when he was forced to fold. To retrieve the glass I must lean over the table to reach it, which means my skirt hikes up in back, exposing my ass, and my breasts rest against the table. As I straighten up, that man cups my breast in his palm, and wraps an arm around my hips, one hand firmly grasping my ass, the other pawing at my tits. I struggle to get away, but he just laughs and gropes until he’s had his fill, and then he releases me with a self-satisfied leer.

  I feel sick to my stomach, and fight the urge to run. I eye the door, but it feels a thousand miles away. I can’t run. I feel trapped, yet some instinct won’t let me leave. I can’t. It is forbidden. I have to see this through; I’m not allowed to leave. I cannot simply walk away.

  As I continue moving around the table, refilling and replacing the glasses, I now endure not merely lecherous glances, but hands on my flesh. All the raging desire I’d once felt is gone. All the need, banished.

  And then…

  The man who first groped my breasts wins the hand with four of a kind.

  “C’mere so I can collect my winnings, girl,” he purrs, reaching for me.

  “I don’t think so,” Killian rumbles. “Miss Tavistock. Come over to me, please.”

  Feeling bizarrely grateful, I circle the table to stand near Killian’s left hand. He pushes back his chair, takes a long sip of his whiskey, and then sets his glass on the table on top of his cards. He curls a hand around my hips, low. His eyes are on on mine, searching, piercing. My heart hammers as he stares up into my face and, once again, everything somehow falls away and vanishes. The world narrows to his eyes. I feel his hand curl around my hip, feel him skate his touch down my leg to my knee. Feel him dive under my skirt. That hand, those fingers, strong, thick, warm, and rough, scraping against the lace of my stockings, skimming up the back of my left thigh. Both hands, now. His hands encircle my thigh, finding the upper edge of my stocking. Teasing a finger along the garter. Then…he stops. There is that ghost of a smirk, and then it’s gone.

  Oh, that smile. It means nothing good for me.

  He leans forward, cradling my calf in his hands and then lifts my leg, placing my foot on his knee. Nine pairs of eyes stop playing to watch, and I feel each stare acutely. Then Killian traces a fingertip from ankle up to knee, and my thoughts begin to scatter. Surely there is some manner of sorcery in his hands, in his touch, in his capacity to banish all logic or capacity for thought by simply touching a finger to my flesh.

  With my foot on his knee and my leg bent, the hem of my skirt is lifted, baring my core. Exposing my pussy for Killian’s gaze, or for anyone within sight line.

  He begins tracing a pattern on the side of my knee and then follows a path across the inside of my thigh. He stops a hair’s breadth away from my cunt, and his eyes gleam with something fierce, something wild, and that smirk flits across his handsome face once more. I’m barely breathing, waiting for his touch. Waiting for that forefinger to dip into me, to slide along the seam of my pussy, to delve into my wetness.

  But no.

  A flick of his fingers releases the clasp of one garter. Another flick, and the second is unfastened. Now my stocking is free and it begins to sag as his hands wrap around my thighs, intimate, possessive, rolling the lace down as he moves down my leg. When the garment is removed, he folds it in precise thirds, placing it on the table. It’s hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Rather than removing my other stocking, he returns his hand to my now-bare leg, still propped up on his knee. Both hands cup my ankle and calf, and then begin to caress their way upward, tickling the back of my knee, cradling the width of my thigh, and then finally cupping my ass cheek.

  The silence in the card room is stifling.

  Every man is watching us in rapt attention, the card game now on hold. I know I should care, but with Killian touching me…I don’t.

  God, no, I don’t.

  Not with Killian’s eyes on me, not with his touch on my skin. Not when his fingers brush the back of my thigh yet again, then dance across the inside, grazing my core. I bite my lip, because I can nearly feel the intention in him, can almost feel his touch to my pussy before it happens.

  Yes…oh god, yes. There it is, the tip of his index finger tracing the outside of my cunt, grazing my labia, and my eyelids flutter, my stomach twists, and I force myself to remain silent. No sounds. No gasp, No whimper. Not one sound…no matter what he does. It’s so difficult to obey my own instruction, especially when he fits that fingertip just inside me, right near the top, finding a certain tight, hard bundle of nerves, and then presses his fingertip to it.

  I swallow a moan, because his fingertip is deliciously rough, and the touch is gentle yet firm.

  And then he stops, withdrawing his hand from my core, and nudges my foot off of his knee, replacing it with the other. In no hurry, he caresses my calf, my thigh, toys with the garter, pulls it back and lets it snap against my thigh. He unhooks the garters one by one, and rolls the stocking off my thigh. Again, he folds the stocking into precise thirds and then hands the pair to the winner of the hand.

  He flicks a finger against his glass. “Top me off, if you would please, Miss Tavistock.”

  I do so, and he gathers his cards off the table.

  I get a look at his hand: It’s a straight flush, which beats a four of a kind, I do believe.

  But he never showed his cards.

  And now the winner of the last hand is shuffling and dealing, and the game has begun again.

  More refills, more hands groping my now-bare thighs, my ass. My tits.

  And Killian allows
it all.

  The hand is won, this time with a straight flush, which means that the winner gets my shirt.

  I’m summoned to Killian’s side yet again. He moves his chair back, and this time he turns so his body faces me. He takes the tray from me and sets it on the table. He pulls me to stand between his thighs, and his hands now skate up my legs and lift my skirt, baring my backside briefly, and then he gathers up my thick blond hair in his fist. A sudden sharp tug leaves me staring at the ceiling, head back, throat exposed. And I feel his breath on my chin as he presses his lips to my throat. My skin pebbles from the heat of his breath. One hand fisted in my hair, the other palms my breast, nudging the shirt off my shoulder, one side, then the other, until it hangs off my elbows, still fastened by three buttons.

  His finger traces a path down between my breasts, over my sternum, and hooks behind the top button of my shirt. A jerk, and the button pops off. Then the second button flies off, landing on the floor. A third time, and this button lands on the table just to my left. I stifle a gasp at each popped button. My shirt is open completely now.

  His quickening breath is hot against my skin, and I’m blinking down at him as he touches his lips to the underside of one breast. Here? Now? With all these men watching?

  Yes, oh yes.

  His mouth latches onto my nipple, his tongue flicks, and I’m fighting the groan, fighting the sigh. He slides his mouth across my skin to the other nipple, leaving the one wet and hard and exposed to the cool air. I miss the moment when he removes my shirt, because his suckling mouth is the only sensation in my universe, making my core throb.

  He nudges me away from him, blinking up at me slowly, his expression carefully neutral. My nipples are wet from his tongue, hard, sensitive, standing erect.

  I’m clad in nothing but a short skirt and a garter belt.

  A nod from Killian and they’re dealing another hand.

  Now I must move around the room naked from the waist up, every sway, every bounce, every movement watched and catalogued by nine men…and Killian.

  The touching is non-stop, now. There are hands all over me. Everywhere. I should be desensitized, but I’m not. I should be repulsed…

  But I’m not.

  I feel them all, and though none of them are Killian’s hands, I still feel every touch.

  My body is on fire.

  Again and again, the men show me that they want to make my body their own, yet I can’t fight my responses. Shudders at first. Then shivers. I should feel revulsion, but…I don’t. I love the feeling of being worshipped, hands desperate for my skin, eyes devouring me, lust burning…all for me.

  Over the next several minutes Killian never touches me, never allows me to refill his glass, he simply observes the men and my reaction to them.

  The next hand is won, this time another four of a kind, and my garter belt goes to the winner. Killian removes it almost idly, absently, one-handed, without any extra touches. I expect him to finger me, fondle me in some way, and he doesn’t. It leaves me feeling off-kilter.

  When he’s given my garter belt to the winner, he addresses the gathered poker players. “Final hand gentlemen.” He reaches forward and snags my panties from the center of the table. “The winner gets these.”

  By now most of the men are intoxicated, yet their eyes on me are hungry. Some almost desperate.

  Except Killian.

  The final round of play begins, but Killian is casual, appearing only vaguely interested, except when his eyes find me. And then, when his gaze rakes across my body, a glint of something deep and dark and potent flickers behind his gaze, flitting briefly across his expression. His fingers twitch, tapping the surface of the table. He swirls the liquid in his glass, an absent-minded gesture.

  I’ve had almost all I can take of the hands gripping my ass, fondling my tits, tweaking my nipples, some daring to come close to my core. I can’t take much more. I try to keep moving around the table, offering drinks and replenishing ice, but the wandering hands follow me everywhere.

  I’m having trouble following the game, except to know that Killian isn’t winning, but it doesn’t seem as if he’s trying very hard.

  I’m all roiled up inside, twisted, short of breath, aching all over, throbbing from being so sexually tense for so long.

  “Ha!” A man shouts triumphantly, leaping from his chair and tossing his cards face up: ace, king, queen, Jack, and ten of hearts.

  A royal flush.

  I’m right beside him when he wins, refilling his glass for then umpteenth time; I’ve lost count.

  He’s not ugly. Far from it. Blond, tall, sharp features, lean and hard looking. Ice-blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Bespoke suit cut to fit his trim body like a glove.

  I turn to face him as he turns to me. I shake all over. His pale, piercing eyes are steady on mine, a smile on his thin lips.

  “Lemme see you shimmy out of that little skirt, darling.” His voice is smooth, easy, the words rolling with a slight lilt.

  I can’t move.

  Not even to cast a beseeching glance to Killian.

  As the winner of the hand with a royal flush, he’s won both my panties and my skirt. He sidles closer to me, until the tips of my breasts brush against his chest. He leans toward me and buries his nose against my neck and inhales. I’m utterly frozen, not even breathing, my heart skips and then hammers like a tribal drum. He sinks slowly to his knees in front of me, his nose trailing down my centerline from breastbone, between my tits, over my belly, and then he’s kneeling in front of me and staring up at me with those ice-blue eyes.

  Killian is silent, watchful. I feel his gaze, feel his silence.

  I also feel the gazes of the eight other men, each hungrier for me than the last.

  And Killian? His gaze is the hungriest of all.

  The man kneeling before me lifts his hands, almost reverently, and finds the zipper pull of my skirt, tugging it down as far as it will go. He gathers the material in his hands, and tugs, once, sharply. I gasp at that rough jerk of his hands, and my mouth falls open as my core is exposed.

  He palms my hip, slides his touch to cup my ass, pulls me closer to him, and his nose buries in my slit. A long, shuddering inhalation, and I know what he smells: my essence, thick and pungent, my desire, ramped up by Killian’s touch.

  There is something about his touch, the electric sting of his hands on my flesh.

  I have no control over my response.

  “Charlie.” Killian’s voice, a sharp, snapped warning.

  It’s all it takes. Charlie, the blond man kneeling in front of me and sniffing my cunt, rises, clutching my skirt, and backs away.

  He snags my panties off the card table, and saunters for the door, pausing halfway out. “Good games, gentlemen.” A glance at Killian. “Conrad…you’ve really outdone yourself this time, my friend. You’ve ruined me for poker, I do believe.” Another glance, this one at my nude body, a longing, appreciative look. “And you…you’ve ruined women for me, darling. I don’t believe I’ll ever find anyone quite so…unassumingly and stunningly sensual as you.”

  Then he’s out the door, and the others are grumbling. Eying me, edging closer to me.

  Killian catches my eye. That smirk, that damned smirk. He pats his thigh, and it works like a command on me, has me circling the cluster of men to stand by Killian’s side, and he wraps one long arm around my waist. He pulls me to him and settles my ass across his lap.

  He moves the chair away from the table and repositions me so my back is to his chest; I’m sitting on him as if he were a chair, his knees between mine. One hand, on the arm of his chair, is clutching his tumbler of whiskey, the half-melted ice clinking against the glass as he lifts it to his lips and sips.

  He tilts the glass to my lips, and I taste the smooth fiery burn of expensive whiskey.

  With his other hand, he explores me in full view of the other men.

  No part of my body is untouched as his hand travels along one thigh, to the crease between hip and
thigh. Up my side, tracing the outer edge of my breast. A fingertip circles my areola, a fingernail flicks against my nipple, then two fingers pinch, twist and tweak until my nipple is diamond-hard and aching. I clench my jaw, fighting the sensations and the heat building low in my belly.

  My attempts are wholly ineffective.

  His touch dances down my torso, to my thighs. Tugs my legs to either side, so my knees are hooked around the outside of his thighs. I’m spread wide open, and I know I’m wet.

  So wet.

  He flicks my nipple, and then pinches it, hard, the way he did earlier, upstairs, and damn him, damn him, damn him—I can’t stifle the gasp that flies out of me. I feel it, then, the gush of hot slick wetness spreading through me.

  He smears two fingers through that moisture, spreads it all over my clit, and I’m gone, gone, gone, head lolling back against his shoulder, eyes closed, abandoned to this, to his touch, regardless of who may be watching—that is now irrelevant. No one else even exists, because his touch is sorcery.

  He offers me more whiskey, and the fiery weight of the liquor hits my stomach like a freight train, blazes through me, lightens my head, scatters my thoughts, sends me flying, floating. His fingers circle my clit slowly, lightly, and gently. But, god, it’s not enough. I need more. I need him to touch me harder and faster so I can finally find the release I need so badly. God, I need it.

  I hear the tumbler thunk onto the table, and then I feel his fingers pincer my nipple, and the sound that emerges from my mouth is pure sexual relief, a throaty groan scraping past my vocal chords unbidden as he clamps down hard and twists. He lets go, then flicks the throbbing little nub gently, and then pinches it again, all the while oh so slowly smearing two fingers around my clit, never quite touching it directly.

  My hips grind on his lap. I feel his erection beneath his slacks, a thick hard ridge. But he doesn’t unzip, doesn’t bring his cock out. Doesn’t even move his hips to grind back at me.

  He brings his hand to my other nipple and gives it the same treatment, alternating hard sharp pinches and gentle, tender tweaks and caresses and flicks, and his fingers on my clit never speed up.