If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(30)

But Nick wasn’t here, so Spencer shivered away the nostalgia and took a deep breath just before their escort pulled open one of the immense doors.

Beyond was a large ballroom filled with groups of people.

Men, women, most seemingly in their twenties up to forties, in a variety of clothes. There were people dressed dramatically in large wigs and fishnets, or understated in tailored suits; some were getting more casual than that, having shed shirts and jackets. Everybody wore the half-mask, and the light was dimmed to flatter. Couches and pillows were strategically placed, but from beyond that room came the tell-tale snap of a whip on naked flesh. He shuddered, the impacts echoing like a visceral memory.

Candles flickered in a number of places, and attendants carried drinks and chocolate-dipped fruit. On the couches were people, some in the early stages of courtship, others very nearly puppy-piled. Men, women, a mix of both, it seemed almost like it didn’t matter.

The slap of leather on flesh tore him out of watching a guy with two women, the women on top, teasing and kissing each 99

other. Spencer glanced at Percy, who looked like he was about to join that particular threesome.

Before Percy could suggest they both join in, Spencer said, “I’ll just go have a look around. I’ll catch up to you.”

Percy made a quiet noise that was equal parts acknowledgement and dismissal.

Spencer crossed the room, feeling quite a few gazes on him. He fiddled with the white wristband on his left hand which indicated he was here for male company. Percy wore none—anything goes. Such an easy solution that took the initial guesswork out of the flirting. He made sure it stayed outside and visible below his shirt cuff while he got used to his surroundings.

Intriguing sounds came from a side room; doors were wide open, and as he walked in, Spencer saw a man getting whipped with a single-tail in front of a smal , appreciative crowd. Under the mask, he was greying, his chest bare: the distinguished silver fox type. The guy whipping him was a fair bit younger. Spencer appreciated how precisely he set every stroke, forming a regular pattern across the victim’s back.

Spencer’s mouth dried out and he leaned against the wal , and watched the Dom drain a glass of water before he continued. For a moment the man reminded him of Nick.

Lean but strong, blond. Though this one was taller and older, and both his arms were tattooed, there were distinct traces of Nick in him. The flicker of a smirk. The arrogant gleam in his eyes. The subtle furrow of concern when his sub made a noise that could have indicated alarm.

Spencer got the hell out of there. Somehow, he was out of breath, even though he hadn’t done a damned thing except watch. Except listen. Except breathe in air that was tinged with 100

leather and pheromones, cologne and massage oils. Even the vaguely medical scent of lubricant, which made him shudder.

He wandered back into the ballroom. Percy had had no difficulty finding some entertainment. His hand was in someone’s long, thick hair as the person’s head bobbed rhythmically over his crotch. Female? The skin-tight leather dress suggested it. Male? The shoulders hinted at it. Either way, Percy was lost in an enthusiastic blowjob, alternately looking down and letting his head fall back as he stared up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

Then he caught Spencer’s eye and threw him a filthy grin and a wink.

Spencer just offered a nod and thumbs-up—he had no idea of the proper response—and kept walking.

“Looking for something?” The sassiness in the voice once again brought Nick back to the centre of Spencer’s thoughts, but when he turned, the source of the question was distinctly not Nick. Not with the jet black hair and matching dark eyes.

The mask obscured his eyebrows, but Spencer imagined them quirking, arching, furrowing just right to drag answers out of anyone he damn well pleased. He was chewing gum, and it was anything but subtle, his jaw snapping, pausing, snapping.

He reminded Spencer of a lion licking his chops, an oral preparation for the spoils of his hunt. Not unlike Nick in that sense, but he lacked the magnetism that had drawn Spencer to Nick. Or, rather, the magnetism that had kept Spencer close to Nick when the rentboy had made his very deliberate and very bold approach.

The black-haired kid stopped chewing and inclined his head, reminding Spencer of the unanswered question.

He muffled a cough. “I’m, um, just sort of checking the place out. New here.”

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“Gotcha.” The kid snapped his gum, the sound eerily similar to a whip on skin. “What do you think so far?”

“It’s . . . different.”

He laughed. “The night’s still young, my friend. It hasn’t even got”—he brought up his smal , fine hands and formed air quotes—“different yet.”

Oh. Fuck. Percy, where are— Right. Blowjob.

The kid held out his hand. “Lee. And you are?”

Spencer hesitated. He shook Lee’s hand, and after a moment, said, “Peter.”

“Well, Peter.” He made a sweeping gesture around the room. “How about the grand tour from someone who practically lives here?”

Oh, hell. Why not?

Spencer shrugged. “Sure.”

Lee reached for his arm, but this time, he was the one to hesitate. “You don’t mind if I . . .” His eyes flicked towards Spencer’s arm.

“No. Not at al .”

Immediately, Lee relaxed. He slid his hand around Spencer’s elbow and tugged him into motion.