I do, returning in a sarong, and more than happy to find him with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bulge at his crotch making it more than evident that he is ready for whatever delights are on the agenda.
He leads me through a space with couches and chairs and people in various states of undress, all touching and stroking and teasing. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here, but I can’t stop looking. Damien sees me, and pulls me back into an alcove, one of many in this room, and clearly set back for this very purpose. There is, in fact, a small curtain that can be pulled across the opening, turning it into a small but private space, almost like a little dressing room.
“Have you ever watched other people make love?” Damien asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. Some porn, but that’s different.”
“It is,” he says. He stands behind me, so that we are in the shadows and I am looking out over the room. Hands stroking. Lips meeting. I don’t know why, but watching these strangers makes my own temperature rise.
“I don’t want them,” I say, as Damien cups my breasts through the thin material of the sarong. “I don’t want anyone’s touch but yours.”
“But it turns you on,” he whispers, and I nod.
“Why?” I ask.
“They’re a mirror. You see passion on their faces and you want it. You see the burn of heat on their skin, and you want to feel it. You hear them cry out when they come, and you want to go there, too.”
“Yes,” I moan, as the truth of what he says washes over me. I’ve never thought I had any voyeuristic tendencies, but watching these people—their hands stroking slick skin, their mouths meeting—is like kindling to the fire already growing inside me. “God, yes.”
I lean back against Damien, feeling the press of his erection against my rear. His fingers tighten on my nipples and I cry out, the cry shifting to a desperate moan as his other hand snakes down to my crotch. “Please,” I say. “Touch me.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and I hear the hard edge of want in his voice.
I nod. I do not want to be the one being watched, but I so desperately want to feel. “The shadows,” I say. “And the sarong is open at the side.” No one will be able to see, I tell myself. But the truth is, I’m not sure I care anymore if they do.
The slit in the sarong is over my hip, but Damien turns it so that it is over my thigh, just barely covering my sex. He slips his hand under the material and strokes me. I bite down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. I am so hot, so sensitive, that I fear I will explode right there in his hand.
“Nikki, oh, god, baby.” He uses the hand that was on my breast to pull my sarong up from the back.
I know I should protest—but I don’t want to. I want the thrill. I want Damien. I want him to fuck me in this dark corner with this cornucopia of sex spread out in front of us. I want the wildness.
I want it all.
“Yes,” I say, and lean forward so that I can hold on to the edge of the alcove. I yank the curtain partly closed—a nod to privacy—but I do not want to block our view.
I am still wearing the sarong, and Damien is behind me, so I know that we have some privacy, but when Damien grips my hips and thrusts himself inside me—when I cry out from the delicious intensity of taking him in and having him pound hard inside me—I know that anyone who looks toward us must know exactly what we are doing.
I don’t care.
All I want is Damien.
All I want is to feel, and I reach around, taking his hand off my hip and easing it into the sarong, silently demanding that he stroke my clit even as he fucks me from behind.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Damien demands, and I don’t. Instead I watch. Passion watching passion. Heat locked onto heat.