3. Primrose
PRIMROSE
She must be frigid.
The old wound rings in my ears as I push through the room, my face burning face as I reach the terrace and suck in lungfuls of warm air.
My eyes sting at the echoing slight, which is stupid. It doesn’t matter if it’s in French or English, it’s not even a clever insult. Just a crappy memory. I didn’t even know what it meant the first time I heard the word. The first time the insult was hurled my way.
High school, and Piers Lander, a posh spotty oik from my English class asked me out.
I turned him down, probably not very politely.
Maybe even with a disgusted twist to my mouth.
But I was thirteen, a late bloomer, and still of the opinion that boys were to blame for the ills in the world.
I think, on some level, I might not have changed my opinion.
I went home and asked Lavender what it meant. I didn’t tell why because she would’ve probably ended up expelled. Or in prison for murder. Anyway, her explanation didn’t help because, just eww! Who would ever want to have sex—and who would want to have sex with Piers Lander?
Sadly, that wasn’t the end of it because the vindictive little shit’s delicate ego couldn’t take the hit.
His mates would snicker as I passed. There were jeers and catcalls in the hallways and stupid comments whispered in classrooms. It seemed to last for years.
Of course, my name didn’t help. Primrose.
Prim by name, prim by nature. Frigid Prim, the virgin queen.
That one had a ring to it, which is probably why the nickname stuck.
But weren’t we all virgins at thirteen? Piers was a little older at fifteen. But I was the girl who didn’t want to have sex. Or go to the cinema to see some stupid action movie with him.
The name eventually lost favor and I forgot all about it until my last boyfriend’s parting shot some eighteen months ago.
“You’re doing me a favor,” Luke had said, standing at the door looking all superior even though I was ending things with him. “You wanna know why?”
“Not really,” I’d replied honestly.
“The sex has been shit,” he said anyway before slamming the door behind him. But not before one last hurled insult. “Frigid bitch.”
The room seemed to echo with it. I’d wrapped my cardigan tightly around myself and promptly burst into tears.
It wasn’t long before those adolescent wounds came flooding back.
There were other memories too. Past boyfriends and incidences of uncomfortable kisses and awkwardly bad sex.
I know I’ve never been good at it. I’ve never been comfortable in my own body, let alone around someone else’s.
It’s almost ironic I became a doctor. And almost ridiculous that I imagined, even in some tiny way, that being here tonight might help.
Not-Nil’s dark expression suddenly flits across my brain. Maybe he hates the word too. Maybe the unjustly attractive man is a secret feminist. Maybe—
“Oh!” I’m jerked back to the present when water from the pool splashes the backs of my legs. It takes me a moment to register the dozen or so people in there swimming, lounging about. And other stuff.
“Come and join us,” someone calls out in French. “The water is beautiful.”
I ignore them. They wouldn’t know what to make of me and I sure as shit wouldn’t know what to do with them. I just need to find Sabine, get my phone, and get the hell out of this place.
At the edge of the terrace, there’s a raised platform where a DJ is playing his set. Given there’s no sign of Sabine, that’s probably not Jay up there. Better check anyway.
“Where’s Jay?” I yell, gesturing to the designer label-clad twenty-something as he reaches for his water bottle. I repeat myself in French.
Was he with a girl called Sabine? Red lipstick and long, blond hair, with the air of Judas about her?
He chugs from the thing then gives a careless shrug. So I skirt the length of the pool and slip back into the villa through by a different entrance.
No need to suffer the humiliation a second time.
In the cool, dark of a hallway, I massage my tense jaw for a moment. I wonder why dark and delicious jumped in like that? Boredom, probably. Or maybe he was embarrassed for me. Maybe that’s why his initial interest waned so quickly, almost like he knew. Knew about me.
I push the thoughts away. What is it about embarrassment that makes us want to dwell? To dissect? To roll in it like a puppy that’s found a bad smell?
But it seems Sabine was right about the party being set into zones.
The first floor, including the outdoor patio, seems to be regular party central.
Loud music, dancing, and chill-out spots where other stuff is going on, if you want to investigate.
Which I do not. But for a lifestyle club, orgy, or whatever the hell this is, things are kind of tame on this level.
Which leads me to believe the stuff not happening here is going on in other spaces.
Please let Sabine and Jay not be part of it.
I walk back toward the entrance hall where a staircase leads up as well as down. Decision made, I metaphorically pull up my big-girl knickers (and knot them tight) as I begin to climb with a sigh.
Bedrooms + people = people having sex.
I know this. I don’t want any part in this.
At the top, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders because, story checks out. There must be a dozen bedrooms up here, most with an open-door policy.
Yay…
I try very hard not to look like a noob—or to look at all—but I have to look, don’t I?
I might miss her otherwise, say under a pile of people.
Now, wouldn’t that be awkward? Hey, Sabine.
I know you’re kind of busy getting busy and that your pockets are lying on the floor somewhere, but do you think you could take your mouth of that man’s penis for a minute and pass me my fucking phone?
Le sigh…
There are round beds, giant beds, platformed beds, and waterbeds. Wooden crosses and swings that aren’t meant for children. There are weird-looking stools and other apparatus and real, live people having sex on all of them. And it’s not at all titillating and don’t get me started on the bathrooms!
“Eep! Excuse et moi!” I quickly pull the door shut after seeing more than I bargained for.
“Come and join us, cheri!” one of them calls out in French. I’d like to say they’re a friendly bunch here, but…
“Non, merci!” Because three’s company doesn’t do it for me. I can’t even muster the enthusiasm for a ménage à moi these days. One good thing is the exposure seems to have inured me to the sight of flesh.
I push through a suddenly busy hallway. “Hey!” I complain to no one in particular as I spin around to see who just pinched my bum. My cheeks begin to pink. Both sets of them. I return to making my way through the crowd. No matter where you are, there’s always someone trying to push the envelope.
I come to another staircase with no rooms beyond. Bollocks. No luck on this floor. I make my way down again, then farther to where a pulsing red light flashes unnecessarily up from the basement.
Hardly subtle, I think as my heels clip-clop on the marble stairs. I’m sure even the most chaste nun would be able to work out that the basement of a sex club is the dungeon.
The sex dungeon.
Suddenly, I’m working against a tide of people flooding up the stairs, so I press my back against the wall and allow them to pass. Cheeks flushed and expression bright, some clasp hands, as others whisper sweet dirty nothings. Whatever’s going on down there has certainly… stimulated them.
I don’t like the sound of that, but I’ve got to get out of here somehow. However, as I reach the bottom, I find everything quiet. Something like relief floods my veins. And my imagination definitely got the better of me because the space isn’t exactly giving dungeon vibes.
I wander deeper into the dark room, my heels echoing against the bare stone floor.
It kind of reminds me of an auditorium or maybe a theatre, given there’s a raised area at one end like a stage.
But whatever made all those eyes glossy and breath short wasn’t from watching any kind of play I’ve seen before.
I squint into the darkness. Are those walls made of glass? As I draw closer, I see they are. Without thinking, I press my hand to the darkened window as I peer in.
“Got you.”
I halt—freeze—the hairs on the back of my neck standing like pins at the deep, masculine voice tinged with amusement.
It’s him. Nils. My heart hammers in my ears as a soft feminine laugh follows.
Oh thank God. A whoosh of my hot breath fogs the dark glass as I realize the voices are coming from behind me.
“I wasn’t running,” the owner of the laugh says in French. “Not from you.”
I fake gag even as some strange part of me startles awake.
It’s not that I’m interested in him but more that she sounds so confident.
A tiny spike of envy runs through me as I turn to an arc of soft, lacy light spilling across the dark stage.
The pair stand in the center, locked in a passionate embrace.
The woman is kind of stunning. Tall and lithe, dressed in a moss-green satin slip gown.
Chin tilted, her eyes are only for him. Next minute, they’re kissing like their lives depend on it.
The sight of their roving hands does something awful and wonderful to the pit of my stomach.
Have I ever been kissed like that? I’m sure I would’ve remembered, I think with a tiny pang.
She sighs, and I find myself joining her, though mine is more from melancholy.
Which is silly because how can you miss what you haven’t had?
Hugging the shadows, I take a step back, then another.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll just keep to the walls and turn around.
Make my way up the stairwell silently and…
do another sweep of the place, I suppose.
Another step backward as he reaches for her face as they trade whispered words. And longing looks. I ought to turn around—I know that—but I can’t seem to make myself.
His hands slip to her shoulders, and her head falls back, her expression one of bliss. Maybe it’s a signal or a sign as he suddenly spins them both until they’re facing the front of the stage. Facing me.
I swallow a gasp. Feel one hammering heartbeat, then two, as a sense of heat washes over me.
I feel prickly and wrong, like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
Or my knickers, maybe. But my deafening heartbeat is replaced by a quiet whoosh of breath when I remind myself it’s dark here in the shadows.
There isn’t much chance they’ll see me. Besides, they’re much too into each other to notice.
He whispers something in her ear, something good judging by the way her body convulses.
And the way my body reacts. Does it make me a voyeur that I haven’t turned around?
That a deep pulse beats between my legs.
Maybe this is where I see and learn. See where I’ve been going wrong—learn what I’ve been missing.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I watch blondie’s hands roam over her.
Hips, belly, then breasts, he frames them like an offering, her nipples peaking against the fabric.
She laughs softly and licks her lips, reaching her hand to the back of his neck.
That prickly sensation takes another form as I think, that could’ve been me.
If I hadn’t brushed him off. If he hadn’t been with his friend.
He might’ve fixed the parts of me that have never seemed to work.
He looks like he knows what he’s doing—to her, to us both—as his hands glide over her hips and he begins to gather the slippery fabric of her dress.
His fingers crawl and the silk slides higher. Higher. And my eyes flutter closed to the image of his table mate. Mr. Darcy-esque wasn’t he something? Something cold. Something… uninterested.
I snap out of my thoughts, and suddenly, my brain is struggling to make sense of what’s happening. It’s like, on some level, I don’t comprehend that I’m watching him push his hand into her underwear.
Her head drops back against his shoulder with a soft moan, and he buries his lips at her neck.
She begins to move with his hand, and my heart begins to thunder.
I wish it was me in the green silk. I wouldn’t be watching then, wondering, playing the voyeur as my core pulses emptily.
I’d be in the dark-haired man’s arms, bending to his will.
But I’m not. And I never will be.
I won’t ever experience passion this intense. Because I freeze. Stiffen up. Become wooden. Even when I try really hard not to.
Suddenly, watching makes me feel worse. I spin away—
“Oh!” My fingers jump to my lips, but it’s too late to muffle my gasp as I find cool blue eyes staring down at me.