“Good.” I mutter softly.
Normally we’re a pack. We have the boys, alpha werewolves, Addison, and Jules and Wiatt with us and I’m surrounded by familiarity and support. I know the werewolves around me, who guard me will ensure nothing ever happens to me or has the chance to. But now it’s just Paris and me and a whole scene we don’t really know anything about. We don’t know the host or what the party is likely to entail down here, what standards are expected or pass for normal and acceptable.
“Show me those shoes.” Paris says over my shoulder looking at me in the mirror. I lift my dress up and aside to showcase my shoe. “Mmmm, might have to play with those. Ps, love that lipstick.” He says placing a kiss on my neck. “Nice touch with the pack color.” Not that we’ve really clarified the whole pack thing yet. But details, we’re newly weds, there are other things to focus on at the moment Like looking divine enough to fuck all night long. “Are you wearing anything under that dress?” Paris asks distracted as he fixes his tie in the mirror.
“Yes, I’m wearing some of my new lingerie.”
“Good.”
“Even packed some spare in my clutch.” I grin at him. Paris smirks in satisfaction. “Alright, ready to do this?” I ask myself more than him in the mirror.
“Let’s dance in the New Orleans moonlight baby.” Paris says to me as I let out a breath and turn around to face him and he takes my hand. He’s always been the more sexually confident of us. Not without reason, the man knows things, how to do things, sex things, it’s fucking brilliant. He’s an amazing teacher and a generous lover.
“Should I be wearing a collar or something?” I say putting a hand to my throat. Suddenly feeling naked as we leave the hotel room. My arms have two black leather cuffs, with double raised rims, circling my wrists. My ears are draped in some lovely, dangly, black sapphire earrings.
“No, it would’ve been too much and to obvious. My pack mate is my equal in these settings. You only owe your sexual submissiveness to me, no one else. It does not mean we have to display it to fit someone else’s cliché.” Paris affirms strongly as he we walk to the elevator. “Relax sweetheart, you are mine and that is the end of the discussion.” Paris says as the elevator opens and we step in without waiting for the hotel bell boy to step out for us. “See, wedding ring.” Paris says picking up my hand and looking at my wedding ring a sapphire and diamond ring. He kisses my hand and lowers it again.
The elevator dings and we step out striding through the lobby, past the reception desk. My dress flows and flaps around me, totally exposing both my legs, which look elegantly long in my new high heels. I glance over, the werewolf receptionist is not on duty tonight either. So definitely no chance in getting information on this Laurent Masson before we get to the moon dance. Therefore I will just have to clam myself down and remind myself, this is not my first moon dance. Nor the first one I’ve gone to with Paris. Still, it’s hard not to be nervous at these types of things. I put my hands to my stomach to calm the nerves.
Paris has been to a quite few of these dances. They’re like a buffet of all you can want and have sexually in the paranormal world. They’re enough to freak anyone out.
29
As per our invitation which I have in my clutch purse, along with my cell phone, lingerie and blue lipstick, we wait out the front of our hotel at 7pm. And watch as a limousine draws up to the front and stops. I presume if we had not, the limo would not have driven here.
I am beginning to suspect that despite not having to RSVP to the moon dance, that Laurent Masson has spies watching our every move here in New Orleans. But I haven’t voiced my concerns to Paris yet. But he’s a smart guy, I’m sure he thinks the same. Pretty sure we would’ve been watched to see how we responded to the invite. We go shopping for clothing and jewels and it’s a clear acceptance we’re planning on going to the moon dance, so the spies report back to Laurent who sends the limousine. That’s what I think has happened.
“Here we go.” I mutter letting out an obvious nervous breath. Paris kisses the side of more forehead quickly. We watch as the driver exits the car and walks around to open the door for us to get in.
“Mr and Mrs D’arenberg, Laurent Masson invites you to join the New Orleans moon dance.”
“After you sweetheart.” Paris says as I gather up my dress and duck under the doorway arch to slide into the back seat. Paris slides in after me and we sit together side by side in the back of the stretched limousine, that is fully stocked with alcohol, including a chilled bucket of champagne with two champagne glasses.
“How long is the drive?” Paris asks the driver as he prepares to close the door.
“We will be there in around twenty minutes sir.” The driver answers as Paris nods his head and the door closes. Paris reaches for the champagne and the two glasses handing one to me.
“Let’s toast our newly married life and the fact that we snuck off to have a honeymoon.” He says pulling the cork out of the champagne bottle to a “pop” sound.
“To temptation in all it’s werewolf glory.” I say back at him holding up my champagne glass as he chuckles and pours me a glass of bubbly.
“And those shoes.” Paris mutters as he pours himself a glass before putting the champagne back in the ice bucket. We sip our drinks and I try to relax, more. “Sweetheart, this is not your first dance, relax.”
“I know.” But Paris is far more at home at these types of events than me and it makes me wonder if I’m denying him something he needs. We watch the French quarter blur past us and local houses give way to more open landscape. The drive is fairly short and we arrive at one of the old mansions, you see plenty of in New Orleans. The limousine pulls into the driveway of a big old plantation mansion. We both look out under the window at the house. It’s looms large and bright in it’s light up white features against an other black night background. The limousine pulls around the front and stops. A male dressed in a suit jogs down the steps towards us and opens the door for us. Paris exits and takes my hand so I can step out, graciously, one leg at a time.
“Mr and Mrs D’arenberg, welcome, this way please.” The male says pointing up the steps towards the mansion that other people are entering.
“Everyone seems to know our names.”
“Yeah you noticed that too.” I reply softly as I link my arm through Paris’s and we walk arm and arm into the bustle of the mansion.
“I had us pegged as being spied upon from the minute we stepped foot in the hotel. The receptionist who checked us in, is a werewolf. Probably one of Laurent’s.” Paris says as our escort stops and holds out a hand encouraging us to step forward into the mansion.
“And you weren’t worried?”
Paris frowns. “What for?” Paris, ever the capable, confident werewolf alpha. Fearless.
“That perhaps we were stepping on some werewolves’ paws without permission by being here. Given who you are.” I reply as we walk in.
“Who we are Bg.” Paris says as we walk towards the main open ballroom. I start noticing the staff well, werewolves I presume who pass for staff, in fetish costume. “I’m very aware of who we are as a couple. We’re a big damn deal sweetheart.” Paris says looking around the room. I do not do fetish wear. I just don’t think it’s sexy, sexy is skin. Sexy is anticipation. Sexy is not obvious. We stand there at the edge of the ballroom looking around, taking in the scenery. “We’re the marriage of the century, I had that little gem thrown at me before I came down here. Uniting two werewolf packs apparently, that’s the image that is out there.”
“So what are we like the werewolf Kennedys or something?” I try to joke. There is a lot of people here. More than I thought to anticipate. The patrons on the dance floor part, creating a path as a female strides towards us. There is a trumpet playing somewhere and a rhythmic beat pounding throughout the room as a woman croons a slow building song.
She has flaming red hair, is about my height, and is wearing a short, tight black dress with a sweetheart necklin
e, and cut out black straps that cover her collarbones and shoulders. She has over the knee black boots and flack tights on her legs and o an entourage of at least five werewolves following her wake, each of them with collars.
One of them to the right of her, I recognize immediately. It’s our hotel receptionist. She’s wearing a tight body hugging black pinafore dress with nothing underneath, to show hints of skin where a white shirt, should otherwise be displayed. She’s got shoes that look like black sneakers but have a heal on them and most obviously, she’s wearing a black collar around her neck with metallic lettering that clearly spells out the phrase “Owned”, there is a silver loop on the front of the collar and a lead hanging down from it that splits into two and connects to two leather wrist cuffs on either hand and the end of the lead is in the red head’s hand. It’s hard to pick Laurent’s age but I suspect she’s around Paris’s age.
“Mr and Mrs D’arenberg, Welcome to New Orleans, I’m Laurent Masson.” She says extending her hand out towards us as she gets closer. I pause, remembering what Paris said to me in our hotel room and keep my hands firmly together in front of me. Paris reaches for her hand and shakes it. “I’m so glad you could join us for my little party.” Paris lets go of Laurent’s hand and she aims it at me. I look at it and leave her holding it out as I look at Paris very slowly and deliberately. Paris looks at me.
You said no one would touch me without your permission. I tell him telepathically.
He nods his head at me and looks back at Laurent, who’s hand is still held out towards me. Then she realizes the error of her simple courtesy. “Of course, I do apologize for the presumption that I could touch your pack mate.” She says smiling at Paris, still holding her hand out. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” Paris replies. Still denying her permission by not saying she may shake my hand. I continue to deny her permission by not reciprocating the gesture back. “We’re delighted we could come.” Paris responds back at Laurent finally ignoring her faux pax. Laurent drops her hand when it’s obvious she has not been given permission to touch me, even to shake hands. She looks at one of her entourage, another male, in fetish gear, and snaps her fingers twice at him, he bows his head and rushes off. “I had heard you were in town and thought to honor the news of your wedding with a celebration, worthy of you both.”
News travels fast.
“Thank you.” I reply back at Laurent as her fetish dressed servant re-appears with a waiting staff member, who has a tray of drinks. “May I offer you a drink?” Paris takes two glasses of champagne off the tray and hands one to me. Laurent takes one herself.
“I must say, if we had been informed of your arrival ahead of time, I could have planned something more for you.” Laurent says back at us.
I arch an eyebrow up in surprise. She either likes this type of thing, or she wants to establish a relationship with our packs. “Even we didn’t know we would be down this way.” I answer Laurent, who seems surprised that I’m talking back to her. She tilts her head slightly in thought, but keeps it to herself as she looks at me and holds up her glass to toast us.
“You’re pack wedding is the talk of, well, everywhere that’s anywhere,” Laurent says back at us. “And I must say, when I heard you were in my town, chosen New Orleans to honeymoon in, I just had to meet the two most powerful werewolves on the east coast in person.” All her entourage, stand behind her silently, looking at us and I can’t tell if it’s awe or obedience. I think it’s the later. I’m not sure why anyone would be in awe of us. But then again, I’ve never heard Paris and I called the most powerful werewolves on the east coast before. Still neither one of us, denies her declaration or down plays it.
“And yet, we know absolutely nothing about you.” Paris replies speaking up as he sips his champagne. “When I see what you’ve done here,” He says pointing out the ballroom of sexually charged activity and energy, fetish and smart dressed patrons, “I wonder how that can be.” Laurent smiles as she sips her champagne and lowers her glass again. “Perhaps a tour and we can talk.” She suggests.
30
The mansion is dived up into rooms of various forms of pleasure. Laurent greets the occasional guest as we are shown around. “You should really come to one of our full moon dances. Strictly no non’s allowed.” Laurent informs as we pause in a room to look at the scenery. Heavy red drapes hang from ceiling to floor; the lighting is low and also red, inviting patrons to immediate intimacy in the room. Most people are paired off with their playthings, and a drumbeat of music adds to the atmosphere of anticipation inside.
“These rooms are quite common and often form their own theme as guests find out what it is they want and then start to congregate in the room associated with the pleasure they’re seeking.” We watch as a woman to one side of the room, stands tall and still, her backside on display through a cut out pvc skirt, her hands bound together and above her head, another woman, squeezing and cupping her ass tightly before whipping the submissive woman’s nipples with a cat of nine tails. The woman’s moans of pleasure having everyone in the room, watching in delight. For each moan the submissive gives after each light whipping, the other woman rewards her by touching her ass.
“Whilst you are most welcome to look around and find what you like I did have a specific wedding gift in mind for you.” Laurent says walking back out of the room again. We walk with her. “Some of my pack tell me that you may have had a bit of trouble the other night, with an unwelcome visitor.”
I look at Paris and back at Laurent. “Those were your wolves you sent out into the alleyway to beat up Booker.”
“I tend to think of it as reinforcing the lady’s message to leave her alone.” Laurent answers me. “As you’re in my house as it were, New Orleans, I do not wish to leave a bad impression on guests such as yourselves.”
“You could’ve asked me if I wanted your, generosity.” I reply back at her sharply.
“My werewolves tell me you may have found the decision hard to take because it seemed to be quite an emotional battle of wills going on.” Laurent says calmly with a smile, looking from me to Paris and I wonder if she’s trying to upset my alpha or get under my skin. Or like she thinks Paris doesn’t know the extent of what Booker and I got into.
“It was private business that none of your spies had a right to observe.”
“Perhaps then next time you choose to have a tiff with your ex-lover, that you won’t make it so public for all of New Orleans to hear?” Laurent says walking past me to a room on her right. “You could always make up for that now,” She says opening a door to a room. We walk through and her entourage hangs outside the room. It’s a converted bedroom. It’s a playroom now. And front and center of the room, with arms spread wide and chained to cuffs, and legs, splayed wide, feet on the floor, chained in cuffs and completely naked, is Booker Parish. He lifts his head to look up at all of us. At least, he tries. I try to get a hold on the jump start of my heart. But I think even Paris is a little alarmed to be greeted by this sight, given by another werewolf. Who seems to think she knows a thing or two about us because of my little spat with Booker. And our public display of affection in the bar afterwards.
What the hell is this? Paris asks me in my mind.
“He’s mildly sedated. It was the only way we could get him into the restraints.” Laurent says back at us, like nothing is amiss. “My werewolves tell me this is the lycan, that has tried to come between you both.”
Paris’s face is stern. “It is.” Paris says back at Laurent. “But we tend to deal with our problems in our own manner, not on someone else’s terms. Even if I’m in their house.” He states sounding like a true alpha. Not some Laurent Masson wannabe.
“No, of course not. I would never presume to tell you what to do with such a specimen of intrigue. But I do have suggestions if sought!” Laurent laughs, seeing absolutely no problem with what she’s done. I’m still not sure who this woman thinks she is. “He’s been otherwise treated quite well here
.”
“Bg,” Booker says sounding groggy. My heart leaps into my throat. This is not my way of dealing with Booker. He drops his head back down again. Mildly sedated huh? He’s a god damn alpha lycan, it would have taken a fair bit to knock Booker down to mild.
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