Chapter 8 The Sinful Gift
THE SINFUL GIFT
EMERY
Christmas was always a difficult time for my family.
My parents did the best they could to hide their stress but I knew.
Even at five years old, I knew. But despite thousands of dollars in medical bills, they made sure Christmas morning was special.
They made sure that the dark space between the tree and the floor was packed with bright-colored boxes, with bows that sparkled.
Maybe that’s why, as I got older, I was never drawn to things that shine.
They often simply mask the darkness. Never fill it. Not permanently.
This morning is different. Though I am surrounded by glitter and gold, by the scent of fresh pine and sweet cinnamon toast, it doesn’t feel artificial.
The laughter in the room isn’t tainted by burden, by the constraints of credit limits and overdue bills.
A part of me resents the joy floating around the villa, and another part, the selfish side of my psyche, wants to drink in the ease of wealth, soak in every ounce of their happiness.
“A quarter?” Will scrunches his nose as the family sprawls around the living room in front of the wood-burning fireplace. Ella snorts, helping her daughter unwrap a gift from Quin. “I don’t get it.”
Sophie chuckles, setting her rum and eggnog to the side. “It’s a trick quarter, Will. Flip it and you’ll see. It always lands on tails.”
Will flips the quarter in the air and perks a confused brow when it lands. “Thank you? I guess?”
“Well,” Sophie gives him a playful shrug, “I figured this might help you win some of those bets you’re so keen on making.”
Will’s jaw locks, a frigid cold front threatening to overtake the warmth we’ve created.
Sophie tilts her head, combative. “What? Am I wrong?”
“Soph—” Quinton isn’t able to get a word in before Sophie stands up, arms crossed, her expression no longer kind.
“Don’t be a bloody idiot, William,” she states. “You lied to us. You said you were done. If you continue to gamble with our family’s money, I won’t hesitate to tell Daddy to cut you off for good.”
“Tell Daddy what?” Charles asks, striding into the room with a coffee mug in hand. He frowns, glancing around at his kids. “Are we fighting already? It’s not even noon yet, children. Perhaps the drama can wait until dinner.”
“Speaking of dinner.” Quinton stands up, and I grin at the red and black plaid pajamas he’s wearing.
Sophie thought it would be hysterical if the entire family matched.
I tug on my sleeve, the fabric soft against my skin.
I’m surprised she included me. “Emery and I won’t be available.
” He glances at me, smirking. “We’ve got plans in Montchauvier this evening. ”
I narrow my eyes at him. Is this the big present?
Because there was nothing filthy about the diamond earrings he gifted me this morning in front of his family.
I’m grateful I went shopping with Sophie earlier in the week and bought Quinton cuff links.
Technically, he paid for them himself, but I think it still counts as a gift. Or so he said.
“Well, in that case, we best get going.” Charles checks the time on his watch. “I’ll tell the attendants to start the lifts in thirty minutes. That should be enough time for everyone to get situated, yes?”
“Lifts?” My question gets lost in the chaos as Will, Ella, Sophie, and the kids scurry out of the living room.
“Shall we?” Quinton smiles down at me, offering a hand to help me to my feet.
“Lifts?” I ask again. “As in ski lifts?”
Quinton chuckles as he leads us upstairs toward our rooms. “I take it you’ve never skied before?”
“I’ve only recently graduated to wearing high heels, Quin,” I say, dreading this afternoon’s festivities. “I don’t think I’m ready to try my hand at skiing.” I glance down at my slippers. “I prefer footwear that doesn’t have a chance of rendering me immobile.”
“I figured you might be hesitant,” he says, opening the door to my room. My gaze darts to a pair of ice skates and a matte black gift box on the bed. “Which is why I came up with an alternative solution.”
I blink. “I would argue that ice skating is just as lethal as skiing.”
Quin snorts, reining in a hearty laugh. “Lethal? It’s ice skating, darling. Children as young as two years old do it.”
I glare at him. “Children are closer to the ground, Quinton. They have a lower chance of breaking their bones.”
He smirks. “I promise to hold your hand the whole time. Plus…” A devious smile spreads on his face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ornate envelope. “I can’t have you bruised and broken before this evening.”
“Montchauvier?”
He passes me the envelope, its weight throwing me off. I peek inside to find two rustic keys settled on the bottom. I delicately slide an invitation out of the textured cardstock envelope, the cursive silver ink on the paper jumping out at me.
“Nuit du Péché,” I read, attempting to recall my French. “Night of…” I tilt my head up at Quinton, brow perked.
“Sin.” His wicked smile almost knocks me off my feet. “Night of Sin.” My skin flushes, a slow, steadying heat spreading through my limbs as he rounds my bed and nods down at the gift box. “Open it, darling.”
My heart beats rapidly in my chest as I approach Pandora’s box, my fingertips thrumming with anticipation as I gently lift the corners, my mouth drying as I stare inside the gift box.
Two masks sit on top of satin lining, both dark like the midnight sky.
The first mask is a solid black, sexy and simple. The second is made with delicate lace.
Beneath the masks, my fingers brush against the silk fabric of two robes. A swirled symbol, the same as on the invitation, is stitched into the fabric with silver thread.
“A masquerade?” I breathe out, reaching for the final item in the box. My eyes widen. “Oh…” My cheeks flush with intense warmth as I stare at the one-piece lace bodysuit with tempting cutouts in the places where my body currently aches.
Quinton's raspy voice sends a shiver down my spine. "It’s a strict dress code. I hope it’s to your liking.”
“What…” I clear my throat, thirsty for the night that awaits us. “What are you meant to wear?” He smirks, nodding down to the robe. My eyes widen. “Nothing else?”
He licks his lips. “Perhaps one more thing but it’s more of an accessory.” He pauses, and my core clenches. “A ring of sorts.”
Swallowing, I glance down at his hand, Damon suddenly flashing through my mind. “But you don’t wear rings.”
“Not on my fingers, I don’t,” he says, and my knees damn near buckle.
“Oh…” is all I manage to get out.
Quinton chuckles, his laugh dark and taunting. “I assume by your reaction that you’re pleased with your present?”
“Uh-huh,” I hum, unable to rip my eyes away from the lace suit. “When do we leave?”
He grins. “A helicopter will pick us up just before six.”
“Six?” It almost comes out as a childish whine.
Quin pouts. “I know, darling, so far away.” He places two fingers under my chin, tilting my head to meet his glistening blue eyes. “But I promise tonight will be worth the wait, and until then…” He reaches around me and yanks on the blades . “It’s ice skating time.”
I have a newfound respect for ice dancers.
“Here.” Quinton kneels in front of me and places an ice pack on my knee. “That should help.”
I glower at him. “I told you skating was dangerous.”
He rolls his eyes, sitting on the edge of the coffee table as the fireplace crackles around us. “You barely even touched the ice, Emery. It was the softest fall I’ve ever seen.”
“But a fall nonetheless,” I huff, inspecting my battle wound. “I hope I don’t bruise.”
“That would be a shame,” he smirks, “since tonight I imagine you’ll be putting those little knees of yours to great work.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but a ghost of a smile slips past my faulty anger. “What exactly is Night of Sin?”
“Whatever you want it to be, darling.”
“I’m serious, Quin,” I say. “I want to know what to expect. Is it…” I bite my lip. “Is it like Club Hades?”
Quin chuckles at a joke I’m not yet privy to.
“It’s similar, however, there are two key differences.
” I subconsciously slide to the edge of my seat and lean in closer, desperate to discover what he means.
“Club Hades has rules, darling. There are collars and rings and rooms for private acts. But at Montchauvier? Rules don’t exist. Doors don’t exist. Think of it as a giant playground and everyone is…
” He pauses, an intense burn radiating from his skin. “Shared.”
I swallow. “Shared?”
“Yes…” Quin’s large palm finds my thigh, and he digs his fingers firmly into my skin. “I love to share, darling.” His glass-coated gaze flicks up at me. “I love to watch.”
Air leaves my lungs. “As in…”
“I don’t believe in constraints, darling,” he rasps, speaking to my goddamn soul. “I believe you deserve to be touched any way you want.” My skin pebbles. “By anyone you want.” A knowing smirk graces his face. “And then we go home. Together.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t be shocked.
Given our history, this all makes sense.
He’s watched before. Through the cameras.
In The Playground. He’s always been watching.
With pleasure. Not with envy. Not with jealousy.
Not like someone. Not like him. He’d never allow for such a night.
He’d forbid it. He’d condemn it. Hell, he’d burn it down.
“Does that excite you, Emery darling?” Quin’s silky tone stirs my insides. “Is that something you want to try?”
The question slips out with no authority. “Will you partake?” I inwardly wince. “In the same fashion, that is?”
He grins like I’ve signed some sort of tacit contract. “Only if you want me to.” He cocks his head. “Do you, darling? Do you want to watch me? Or…” His hand slides in between my parted thighs, and even through thick winter stockings, he can feel my heat. “Or do you want me to watch you? Only you?”
The correct answer is obvious. Tit-for-tat. If I can, then he should be able to. But it’s difficult to picture, almost infuriating.
“Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth, darling,” he whispers. “I shan’t hold it against you. What do you want, Emery? Tell me.”
“I…” The emotion boiling inside me is so foreign that I can hardly recognize it. “I want you to watch.” My tone lowers. “Only watch.” His eyes light up. “Because…” He lifts a prompting brow. “Because the only person who’s going to fuck you tonight…is me.”
A tiny growl reverberates in his chest as he leans toward me, his breath hot against my ear. “Good girl,” he drawls. “That was the correct answer.”
“It was?”
He pulls back, his gaze dark and decadent. “No one touches me but you.”
And for him, for his pleasure, I will get touched.
By whoever we deem worthy.