Chapter 33
Orchid House
ALISTAIR
Pryce eases us to the curb outside Orchid House.
When I open Ivy’s door, she steps out and the dress moves with her as she straightens, the long bare line of her back in the lamplight.
So goddamned beautiful. I pull her in and put my mouth to her neck.
She is warm and she smells so fucking good and I hold her there for a moment.
Yesterday the threat of Elena and the Mirror Bratva loomed, tomorrow it’ll be Hargrove.
But tonight, we can pretend that we have nothing to worry about. We can be reckless without risk.
“Ready?” I say against her throat.
“Ready.”
Two couples are ahead of us on the steps.
The house is modern, minimalist, double-fronted.
Two stories, the ground floor windows amber with low light, the top floor glowing with candles.
I can hear the music from here, low and slow.
I take Ivy’s hand and we go to the door.
A man in a black shirt checks a list and nods us through.
A porcelain-tiled floor, copper trim, a long dark console table with a vase of heady ranunculus.
An incredible staircase curves up to the left.
The music is closer now, I feel the bass in my pelvis.
Underneath it all is the smell of the room: candle wax, cardamom, warm food somewhere.
As we get closer, we hear the quiet hum of people talking under their breath, and then there are confident high-heeled steps coming our way.
“Ivy! Alistair.” Sarah comes through the drawing room doorway with both arms open.
I have only seen her in a bikini by the jet pool at the Palacio, with wet hair and very little makeup.
This version of her in a blouse of sophisticated champagne silk, her auburn hair in loose curls, and what looks like professional make-up is hardly recognizable.
Still, it’s her. I’d know that mouth anywhere.
Behind her Matt appears, and I don’t like how attractive he appears. I glance at Ivy, but she’s hugging Sarah, warm and unhurried. Sarah then takes both my hands in hers. “You two came. I'm so happy.”
Matt shakes my hand with a steady gaze and a firm grip, then touches Ivy's arm. I’m glad to see his touch doesn’t linger.
“So good to see you both. Go enjoy the party. There’s plenty of food. We always over cater.”
“We can’t help it,” laughs Sarah. “We’re American.”
Matt’s brows arch. “The mixologist is making killer frozen Negronis.”
Sarah squeezes Ivy's hand. “Make yourselves at home and we'll come find you a little later.”
Then they are absorbed back into the room.
We go through to find around twenty people, all dressed with intent. There is a certain energy in the room, anticipation, but the low-lying kind, deep and steady.
A woman near the window in a black corseted gown, the waist impossible, the skirt floor-length and split to the hip on both sides.
A man in pale ivory jacket open over bare skin, barefoot on the heated tiles.
Two women in the far corner in matching white, wide-legged trousers, nothing above the waist apart from statement necklaces.
On the chaise near the fire, two lean, athletic-looking blonde women are kissing. A man kneels at their feet, their fingers loose in his hair.
The food table runs along the back wall. Everything small, designed for a mouth that has other things to do.
Fat peach slices grilled and stuffed with goat cheese and honey, still warm.
Oysters on crushed ice. Paper-thin ham draped over a marble board.
Tiny saffron arancini. I pick one up and hand it to Ivy, who bites into it and closes her eyes at the molten center.
Dark chocolate discs with salt and dried rose petal.
Thin toasts with something blue-veined and a curl of pear.
I pick up an oyster and hand it to her. Ivy tips it back without hesitation, then licks the shell.
“You've become revoltingly good at those,” I say.
“I have a very encouraging husband.” She picks up a chocolate disc and offers it to me, and I take it from her fingers.
A waiter passes with frozen Negronis: pale gold, crystal coupes, cold enough to mist. Ivy wraps both hands around hers, sips, and sighs in pleasure. I want to put my mouth on her shoulder. I don't. Not yet.
The room has shifted by the time Sarah finds us.
The man who was kneeling is now part of the blonde tangle on the chaise. The two women in white have stripped off completely and acquired two men between them. The curtain at the far end moves in a draught and goes still.
Ivy is relaxed and close against my side. I can tell she’s horny by the way she moves her body against mine. My hand is at her waist and I am thinking about the upstairs rooms in a way that is making it difficult to think about anything else.
Matt circles back to us first, slowing for a half-second at the painting above the fireplace—a large dark canvas, a figure in a doorway—before he reaches us.
The fact that he appreciates art will make Ivy like him even more.
I ignore the stab of jealousy I feel, inhaling sharply through my nose. Sarah is behind him.
“You know what I almost never see?” Sarah says, quiet, looking at Ivy. “Two people who aren't performing, you know? You two have something real. I felt it in Spain, and I feel it here, even from across the room.”
Matt is looking at Ivy with the particular patience of a man who has learned to wait for things he wants. “We'd love to show you the upstairs. Whenever you're ready.”
Would I be able to share Ivy again? It felt impossible, but I wouldn’t have accepted Sarah’s invitation to the party if I wasn’t open to the idea.
We all had such good chemistry, it would be a shame to pass up a night of play with them.
Besides, Matt’s not a threat, even though my jealousy points otherwise.
They don’t even live in the same country as us. It’s the perfect hook up, really.
Ivy turns her face up to me. Her champagne face.
“Yes,” I say. To both of them.
Sarah smiles and takes Ivy's hand.