hell. “In fact.” She turns to face me, resting her forearm against the bar, her fingers reaching up to slide a lock of hair behind my ear. “I think it might work in our favour.”
“Your favour,” I grate out through gritted teeth. Because as well as not being buggered, I’m not playing lesbian for the night.
“A dietician, you say?”
I nod even though that’s not at all what I said I did for a living, then take a sip from my second glass of vino, if for no other reason than to prevent me from speaking . . . and telling him to piss right off. Because he didn’t really ask what I did for a living. The arsehole doesn’t seem interested in anything but my white ribbon and the challenge it seems to represent. His friend, meanwhile, is wooing Bethany.
Wooing? Enticing? Well, whatever the sex party equivalent is. But she’s playing with her hair and acting all coy, so I think she’s into him. And for that reason alone, I’ll stay. At least until my hour is up or they slink off to a dark corner.
“You know, I like to watch, too.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your ribbon.” He reaches out as though to finger it when I jerk out of reach, jarring my back against the bar behind me. Not on your nelly, mate. No fingering the ribbon. Or the girl. “You like to watch,” he asserts. “As an experienced attendee, I happen to know if you like to watch, you’ll also enjoy participating.” His oddly overgroomed eyebrows waggle over the edge of his glass as he raises it. Eyebrows aside, he’s not bad looking, I suppose. The tux probably helps. But these are just observations because I have zero interest in being here for any longer than necessary.
“Like I said, it’s my first time here. I’m taking it slowly.”
“First times can be special.” I’m not sure he could’ve made that sound any seedier if he’d tried. “I could be your guide.”
Urgh. Hold my drink while I vomit in the potted palm over there.
I lean back inconspicuously to see how Beth and her (sex party) beau are getting along. The conversation seems so normal, the bits I can hear of it. In fact, it all looks so ordinary. Well, as ordinary as any posh party. People drinking and chatting in groups and couples. The men look so dapper in their dinner jackets, women gorgeous in designer wear. The only odd thing about the whole scene are the ribbons. Everyone wears a ribbon. Some more than one.
And I have so many questions about the colour coding for later.
Maybe this is how the rich run their sex parties. Maybe they chat and get to know each other before “retiring” elsewhere to the dirty deed. Because there’s nothing scandalous or titillating going on here . . . until my attention snags on the sight of a gorgeous Amazonian redhead wearing a cream-coloured gauzy dress and nothing else. And if that isn’t strange enough, she’s leading a much older man through the throng by his tie.
That is . . . an odd pairing. And that body has spent a lot of hours on a reformer in a Pilates class. Hers, not his.
“What do you say?”
“Pardon?” My attention snaps back. Oh God, please go away.
“I see you looking at the pastor and his friend over there. Maybe we could join them. I’ll look after you. I’m kind of popular at these events.”
Along with chlamydia, I’d bet.
“I’ll, erm, think about it.” For exactly three seconds while I have another gulp of wine. Ah, that’s good, even if the company is vomit-inducing.
“I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the saying you are what you eat. You know, in your profession.”
Something tells me we’re not talking about macros; carbs, protein, and fats. Or even the importance of micronutrients; vitamins and minerals, and the like.
“I’m familiar,” I answer carefully, steeling myself for the punchline.
“Well, let me put this to you. I must’ve eaten a fucking legend.”
“Ha-ha. You’re so funny.” Funny strange. You know what else is funny strange? The sensation of your nipple covers dislodging themselves from your skin.
Peeeel and pop!
“And I must’ve eaten some donkey dick in a previous life if you know what I mean.”
Or maybe some donkey brain, except that would be insulting to donkeys. And yes, please direct your salacious wink my way. It just makes me want you. And no, that wasn’t an excited shimmy. That was me wiggling my nipple covers down my dress.
“Oh, is that Emma