I quickly dismiss that thought. Easton wouldn’t do that to me, no matter how angry he is. Intrigued by whomever else might be here, I sweep the bottom floor one last time before heading toward the floating staircase.
The music changes as I take it all in, the entirety of the penthouse vibrating with introductory bass before a woman’s breathy moans sound through the speakers accompanying industrial-sounding rock. Realization slams into me, the tone of the music reeking of a lack of inhibition.
Scalp prickling with awareness, the music slithers its way through me in a seductive caress down the back of my neck before giving me the come-hither finger. I follow it, sauntering through a sea of writhing bodies. The further I step in, the more my intuition spikes. The music seducing me along with everyone else, a tangible change in an already voyeuristic type of vibe.
Arousal pulses in the air, and anticipation flutters through my chest as I make my way up the spiraling staircase. I take the last few steps up, a sway in my hips, the ambiance causing my own inhibitions to inch down slightly. It’s when I reach the landing that I see the first floor was a fluke, a ruse in comparison to the real party happening upstairs. I draw the only conclusion I can to the theme of tonight’s party—sin.
And Satan is most definitely cleaning house tonight.
Keeping my “holy fuck” inward, I damn near laugh as I take in the full-blown ominous circus taking place before my eyes. Everywhere I look, there’s something more brazen than the last sight to behold.
A crowded, wall-long bar sits to the left of the gigantic room. Half a dozen or so large couches are filled to the brim with celebrities, socialites, and the likes. Scantily clad women, many topless, writhe in every part of the room, their bodies twisting to the music in salacious offering.
To my right, a few of said women kiss on a loveseat opposite an executive-looking type in a suit. He’s got his back to them, conversing with the man next to him as if they’re in a breakfast meeting. No doubt a music exec.
Just to the right at the end of the bar sits a DJ booth, mixed-colored strobe lights dancing around him. He bobs his head to the trance-inducing beat, the illicit lyrics projecting while sung on the wall behind him.
The more I observe, the more it feels like walking into a dark fantasy. While this may not be my world, right now, I’m a part of it, and I plan on enjoying every second. My plan becomes a lot easier to follow as the music continues to hypnotize me, the deep bass and mechanics drawing me into the thick of the theme.
Everyone in attendance is of varying ages, from early twenties up to their fifties, and very few seem to be acting age-appropriate, which has my smile lifting substantially.
At the bar counter closest to me, credit cards are being utilized to separate a variety of spices, only to be snorted a second later. On the other side, scantily dressed bartenders—men and women—distribute liquor in mass quantities, dueling bottles in each of their hands as they pour freely. Just as quickly, their concoctions are tossed back like water by those on the other side, empty glasses being slammed down, summoning for more.
Scattered throughout the rest of the room, I spot a few more half-naked women grinding on the laps of several men in various chairs and footstools. If I had to guess, I would say an orgy may be in the works, and it won’t be long before it elevates to a level that might be too uncomfortable to feed my curiosity. I’ve never been a prude, but I’ve never been confronted so brutally with sexual barriers before. The thought of just how far away I am from my norm has a nervous laugh escaping me as I take one gigantic step straight into the thick of it.
If this is Easton’s kind of party—Easton’s world—I conclude I’ve nailed my assessment of what he’s been trying to shield me from. Even so, I can’t help the exhilaration I feel knowing this kind of thing truly does exist.
It’s everything I thought a rocker party would be—complete fucking mayhem. Feeling attention start to drift toward me, I slink away from the center of the room and inch toward the bar as I scan the cluttered space once more for Easton and come up empty. Upon doing so, I temporarily become distracted watching a woman lower her top for a man who looks like he’s about to devour her. I damn near jump out of my skin when a voice sounds from my right just behind me. “And who are you?”
A quick assessment has me noting a paper-thin V-neck sweater and dark jeans before I turn to address him. His eyes are a sparkly kind of grey, or at least they look that way in contrast with the amount of light in the room. He has a slim but muscular build, and thick dark hair. In seconds I assess he’s hot—substitute teacher hot—and a little older. My best guess is somewhere in his early thirties. His watch isn’t too expensive or flashy, so he probably wears it for practical reasons.