Page 11 of Take Me Darkly

The amethyst pendant Anton had fastened around my neck lay cool against my sternum. I lifted my hand, my thumb tracing the smooth curve of the stone just to feel its weight, hoping it might anchor me against the sudden rush of vertigo.

We walked through a narrow, winding hallway. With every step, the atmosphere changed. A heavy, rhythmic bass thrummed through the ancient masonry, a low, primal pulse that synchronized with the erratic beat of my heart. Voices echoed from somewhere ahead, the sound rounding the stone like rushing water curling around a bank.

Eventually, the hall opened to a large dance club. Even in the late morning light, the space thrummed with a dark, magnetic life. The vaulted ceiling arched high overhead, and if I squinted through the dim, amber haze, I could still make out the faded, painted faces of angels peering down from the rafters.

I froze at the threshold, my breath catching in my throat as the magnitude of the architecture hit me.

“The nave,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry?” Anton asked, turning back, his dark eyes instantly locking onto mine.

I scanned the expansive hall, taking in the massive crystal chandeliers hanging precisely where crucifixes once had, their facets scattering sensual shadows across the polished floor.

“This used to be the nave for the congregation,” I murmured, my gaze sweeping over the space.

A slow, wicked smile cut across his sharp features. “It still is, princess. Only now, we practice a different kind of worship.”

It was entirely unlike an actual church, yet so achingly, intimately familiar. If I hadn’t grown up in the Catholic faith, I might not have recognized the skeleton of the space. But I knew where the pews had once been anchored, where the aisle had led the faithful toward the altar, where prayers had been offered for salvation.

My mother’s voice drifted up from the depths of my memory, sharp and stern.

“Quando il diavolo ti accarezza, ti vuole l’anima.”

“What does that mean?” Anton asked, stepping closer until his heat washed over me.

“‘When the devil caresses you, he wants your soul,’” I translated, a faint, melancholic smile pulling at my lips. “It’s an old Italian proverb my mother used to quote. I just hope Mamma is having so much fun in heaven with my Papà that she isn’t looking down to see what I’m doing right now.”

Anton didn’t laugh. His dark gaze softened, shimmering with a sudden, fierce tenderness as he reached out and encased my hand in his. His grip was warm, solid, and absolute.

He led me deeper into the grand hall. The air was rich and intoxicating—a heady blend of sweet vanilla, costly leather, and warm candlewax. Plush velvet couches lined the stone walls, broken at regular intervals by deep, curtained alcoves that offered semi-privacy. They were modern confessionals, trading absolution and forgiveness for raw appetite and unchecked desire.

At one end of the hall sat a sleek DJ booth with state-of-the-art equipment. At the opposite end, where the high altar had once stood, a raised platform rose like a sanctuary for movement. Two thick strands of black silk hung suspended from the ceiling, swaying gently beside a polished aerial hoop.

Three performers—two women and a shirtless man—were adjusting ropes, testing angles under the watchful eye of an instructor.

“They’re rehearsing for the weekend,” Anton murmured, bringing me to a stop beside a stone pillar. “They perform once a month. The members love this trio. Want to watch?”

I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though a flutter of intense curiosity stirred in my stomach. “Sure.”

My core tightened as I observed them. The scene wasn’t overtly sexual, yet the intimacy in their movements—the complete, unflinching trust—was staggering. One woman wore a crimson bodysuit that clung like a second skin. The other was dressed in black and burnt orange, her posture grounded and fluid. The man stood between them, muscles taut, eyes trained upward in laser-focused concentration.

The dancer in red scaled the silks with effortless grace, the dark fabric wrapping around her thighs as she climbed. When she bound the silk around her waist and fell backward into a controlled, breathtaking drop, the man stepped in instinctively. His hands hovered inches from her body—not touching her, but so close the air between them seemed to hum with static electricity.

I watched, completely transfixed.

The second woman moved to the aerial hoop, testing its sway before joining the first dancer mid-air. Their bodies mirrored each other in a fluid, hypnotic rhythm—tangling and untangling in a slow, deliberate dance of power, surrender, and control. As their bodysuits twined, they looked like living flames in the ambient light.

A sudden, sharp ache pierced my chest. It made me think of my glassblowing workshop in Lucca—the furnace, the molten glass, the creation. It was all a pile of charred rubble now. A wave of melancholy washed over me as I watched them spin. I missed it. I missed the art of creation, and the pure escapism of forging beauty out of heat and fire.

The male spotter guided the silks beneath them, his physical presence grounding the entire performance. His strength was an unspoken, ironclad promise that he would never let them fall. Together, the three of us watched a masterpiece of erotic movement, unfolding to a rhythm that felt indecently primal.

It was hypnotic—grace and desire woven into a single thread. The women arched and spun in perfect synchrony. As one descended, the man lifted her effortlessly from the air, his hands anchoring at her waist. Pulling her back flush against his broad chest, his hand slid down, cupping her firmly between the legs—a grip that was possessive, commanding, and overtly sexual.

The silks wrapped around all three of them, binding their bodies together. It was art, but underneath the beauty lay a raw, undeniable hunger.

When they finished, the dancers slid smoothly to the floor. The breath I had been holding rushed out of me, only to hitch again as the man pulled both women into his arms, kissing each of them with unashamed, lingering passion. He whispered something against their lips, praising their execution, and both women flushed with obvious pride.

I felt Anton’s gaze burning into the side of my face long before I turned to look at him. He was studying my reaction, taking in my parted lips and the heat rising in my cheeks. I was shocked by how intensely, embarrassingly turned on I suddenly was.