released the driver’s hand and spun my arm around the gentleman’s. I was almost positive he could hear my heart thumping—or feel my pulse pounding against his bicep, at the very least. To calm my body, I concentrated on my walk. I moved with the grace, arrogance, and sensuousness of a cat, as though I had a tail that curled around the air and my feet were paws. I allowed the constricted eye slits of my mask to heighten my lust.
I entered the house with nothing but my mind and body, my heels meeting cherry wood floors and area rugs in dark, rich colors. I blinked, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light. Most of the lamps were off; the glass domes that hung on the walls were filled with candles that lit up the hallway and each room it led to. As dim as it was amid the flickering flames, it was difficult to appreciate the artwork or the intricate details of the painted ceilings…or the sculptures that occupied whole walls and corners. Sensuality covered every inch, every surface.
As we moved through the house, the organ that played through the wall speakers drowned out the noise from our steps. The music reminded me of a haunted house. But the loudest sounds of all were those in my mind. Questions swirled with each step: would I be working in this mansion…where was he taking me…what job was I going to be offered…would I accept it…and why was I dressed like this? I was anxious to find out the answers, and yet I was already turned on by my surroundings, and by the way the dress rubbed against my inner thighs.
The man at my side caused a spark, too. He wasn’t just squeezing my arm and causing a light pain that added to the excitement; his hand was also gripping my wrist. I felt as though I were being led to my room for punishment. His head was pointed straight, his jaw firmly shut. I wondered how many others he had chaperoned, what offers had been presented and if they had accepted. I didn’t think he would answer if I asked, so I let my imagination take over.
I’d never been to an art gala, but I envisioned that I was at one now: this would be the first celebration held in my honor, and I didn’t have to pay the bill at the end of the night or carry anyone home. My Kerrianna , my Day of the Dead , and a slew of others were being exhibited. The guests greeted me with awe in their eyes. The darkness in my stroke was appreciated and expected—requested, even.
We passed staircases that curled around the edges of each room, floor to ceiling canvases, vases large enough to stand in. My hands twitched for a release; my muse wanted to portray the colors, textures, and lines in paint. Whenever my creativity was stimulated this way, a voice within would scream for a canvas. I didn’t know when I would be home, but I knew what would come out of me when I got there. I would combine the images from this mansion, the emotions and smells, and purée them into a magical assortment of dark and sensual, mirroring the way this dress made me feel.
We stopped in front of a section of books at the back of the library. A guard stood just to the right, arms crossed and feet spread apart. The men nodded at each other. The guard moved the bookshelves to the side, revealing a black wooden door. Once it was unlocked, our bodies created a line, and we moved through and down a narrow case of spiraling stairs. There wasn’t any music in this part of the house. I could hear each stair creak as my feet left them.
When we reached the bottom, the man holding my hand said, “Victoria, I have Ms. Williams here for you.”
My eyes traveled across the room and landed on the woman whose back faced us. I assumed the Recruiter would be the one to meet me. But this woman had lighter skin; her legs weren’t as long and lean, and her waist was thicker. She stood with her hands on her hips, in front of a wall of televisions. I was too far away to make out what was on the screens, but the scene on each looked a little different.
“Thank
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