Page 70 of Five

It’s instant deprivation of light. The blindfold is thick and black and completely unlike my mother’s filmy scarves we played Blind Man’s Bluff with as kids. It’s unnerving, and my hands raise without thought to pull at the fabric. To do what, I’m not sure.

Somebody steps forward, the sound of their feet shuffling against the stone flooring, and takes hold of my hands to push them gently back to my sides before I can touch the blindfold.

“Good?” Oliver murmurs from behind me.

I nod and focus on my breathing.

The blindfold tightens around my face, the slight pinch of it tangling with my hair, and then someone’s hand takes mine and pulls me a few steps to the side until I feel the table brush against my thigh.

“Climb up on the table and lie down,” Cope’s voice instructs. It’s different sounding from its usual humor-filled rumble. Darker. Thick with lust and expectation.

It makes the hair on my arms stand up in anticipation.

Using my hands to feel my way, I crawl up and onto the table. Beneath my knees, the tablecloth is thick and silky in texture, and as I move toward what I think is the center, I try to imagine what I must look like on my hands and knees, my ass very likely peeking out from this ridiculously short dress.

Hands stop my forward progress, brushing over the bottom of my cheeks before guiding me in rolling me over onto my back. I lie there, tense and waiting for the next step.

“Relax.” That’s Oliver’s whisper in my ear. “Just feel.”

I nod, and I force my muscles to go limp against the table, pressing my palms flat against its surface along my sides.

For a minute, there is an absence of any meaningful sensation. There’s no sound other than the insects. No physical feeling, save for the gentle caress of the night breeze against my legs.

That doesn’t last long, though. Hands take hold of mine and lift them until they’re above my head, and then move to loosen the knot I’d pulled my hair into earlier, pulling it carefully free of the blindfold so they can thread through the strands in a delicious massage.

Lips touch mine, gossamer light at first and then deeper, hungrier. I don’t think I’ve kissed this mouth before, so maybe this is Jesse—

“Stop thinking.” That’s Oscar.

“Mm,” someone—I’m not sure who—murmurs agreement. The hands leave my hair, sliding down to cup my throat and collarbones in a loose shackle, and this time the mouth that descends on mine is inverted. I’ve never been kissed upside-down before. It’s different, our tongues finding new ways of curling together.

I like it.

Something cold touches the swell of flesh above the neckline of my dress, and I flinch, breaking the kiss as my tongue darts out to lick my lips. I’m not certain, but I think it’s a—

I hiss as it glides along the edge of my dress, and I almost panic.

—yes. That’s what it is.

The object moves to the vee between my breasts, dips beneath the material of the dress, and begins to slice down the center, the flat edge of what is most definitely a knife sliding down my torso and over my bikini panties, until it reaches the hem of the dress and cuts neatly through it.

Someone just cut my freaking dress off of me. My flesh prickles, a small gasp escaping my lips.

The fingers at my throat flex, the pad of one thumb dipping in to trace the hollow of my throat, lingering on the pulse that flutters there. They slide down, spreading the two halves of my dress wide until they fall at either side of me. I didn’t wear a bra with this dress—only a pair of thin, blush-colored panties—and my nipples pucker instantly with a combination of air and anticipation.

I listen to the sounds around me, my hearing suddenly so much more acute. I can hear the rattle of trays, the muted rasp of a knife slicing through something soft, followed by a metallic snick, and the crunch of ice as a bottle is shoved into something.

An abundance of smells bursts into the air. Too many to tell them all apart. Fruit, I think, but layered with so many other tempting scents.

Then something sweet and juicy is drawn along my bottom lip.

I open my mouth instinctively but touch my tongue far more cautiously to the soft pulp.

Peach or nectarine. I can’t tell which without feeling the skin. It’s pushed into my mouth, and I chew the delicious morsel. Another slice is used to draw patterns on my skin and a hot tongue follows the sticky trail.

Suddenly there are more hands, more fruit, more mouths. Some pieces are fed to me by hands or lips, others are trailed across my increasingly sensitized flesh and eaten off me.

I hear a distinctive pop and fizz. A dribble of champagne is poured between my parched lips, but more finds its way to my body. Into the hollow of my throat, my belly button, where it is sipped and licked away. A splash over my panties, making them even wetter than they already are, before a hot mouth sucks the moisture away, right over the top of my throbbing, aching clit.