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Faint music and laughter was coming from somewhere in the library. That didn’t make sense. As her ears strained to hear the noise, it seemed to grow louder. Could it be…ghosts? No, that was ridiculous. Strangely, the music seemed to be coming from beneath the basement.
She tried the handle of a discreet door at the back of the room. It was unlocked. To her surprise, it opened to another hall that led at a long sloping decline to what she assumed were more archives. Perhaps this led down to where they housed the oldest or most useless books, or the student dissertations. She’d known the library contained deep and private rooms, she just didn’t understand why anyone would host a party in one on a Friday night.
Her boots clicked down the narrow hallway, which ended at the top of another staircase. At the bottom was another door, opened just a crack. Crazy. This was almost like a secret passage beneath the library. She could clearly hear a man’s voice speaking with authority from the room at the bottom of the stairs.
“Thank you, my friends, for sharing your work,” he said. “Now it is time for our monthly celebration—and I think you will be pleased to meet our new members tonight.”
Amazing. There was actually a little club that met down here. Who could it be? People from the Classics department? Some weird literary geeks? Chelsea crept down the stairs as quietly as she could toward the crack of light spilling from the door. Holding her breath, she peered through—and almost dropped her purse in amazement.
A massive, candle-lit room spread before her. On sofas of faded red velvet, a variety of strangers sipped champagne, exchanged books and chatted pleasantly amongst themselves. The men and women seemed to range from their twenties up to their sixties, yet their identities were impossible to decipher.
All of them wore masks.
Heart thudding with excitement, Chelsea peered closely at an attractive brunette who sauntered by in a clingy black dress. The woman was braless and her stiff nipples protruded through the thin fabric. Chelsea was surprised to see such a flagrant display in such an elegant setting. As she looked around, she realized many of the people wore risqué clothing—and that large nude paintings adorned the walls of this secret room.
Chelsea’s heart hammered wildly in her chest. She knew she was spying on something she was not meant to see, yet a mix of curiosity, fascination and forbidden arousal rooted her to her hiding spot.
; Several of the guests approached her door. She shrank back, but they only helped themselves to small cakes at a nearby table.
“—always thought Marlowe didn’t get the recognition due him, it’s always Shakespeare, Shakespeare, Shakespeare,” one groused.
“Don’t I know it. And Ben Jonson? Scarcely a student who’s heard of him. Disgraceful, I tell you…”
Their conversation faded as they left the table. Slowly she exhaled, watching a young-looking blond guy kneel to rub an older woman’s feet. Was this some kind of academic orgy? Or just a party? Some of the revelers wore evening wear, sipping champagne in their gowns and tuxes, but others sported decidedly revealing clothing. One man was bare-chested above his leather pants, while another woman wore a short, transparent dress that looked more like lingerie. A masked and naked girl walked by, carrying a tray of champagne glasses. That answered the question, Chelsea supposed. She had stumbled upon some kind of exclusive sex party for academics—and not just on campus, but in the very bowels of the library! She caught her breath as an older man with a mane of white hair pulled the naked girl onto his lap and casually played with her breasts. She couldn’t be quite sure with his eyes masked, but he looked exactly like her favorite science fiction writer.
An odd sensation crept up her skin, as if someone had spotted her through the cracked door. She glanced across the room.
A young, masked man was watching her. About six feet tall, he stood apart from the surrounding guests. Beneath his black Lone Ranger mask, a firm jaw and sensually full mouth promised the knowledge of the art of pleasure. His thick and glossy mane of wavy chestnut brown hair was artlessly rumpled, as if he had just finished bestowing that pleasure on one very lucky girl. His dark eyes burned into her through his mask.
Her throat tightened with fear and she jerked back with the impulse to run. Somehow she was unable to break his gaze. Slowly, she realized he was not going to alert the other guests. A hot, excited flush swept through her body as she struggled with the mysterious conviction that this man was someone who could understand her. He was masked, yes, but the proud stance of his shoulders and that luxuriously tousled hair conveyed a physical promise she wanted very much to explore…
The door abruptly swung open and a woman in a jeweled, cat-eye mask stood before her.
“Good evening, Chelsea,” Professor Deveaux said.
Chapter Two
“I…I don’t understand.”
Chelsea held a cool damp towel to her burning cheeks. She was sitting in a leather wing chair of the special collections room as Professor Deveaux calmly handed her a glass of ice water. A dozen conflicting thoughts battled in her mind—should she call Campus Security? Would Professor Deveaux punish her for spying? Should she join in? And how could she see that beautiful brown-eyed man again?
“It’s a club, ma chère, nothing more and nothing less,” Professor Deveaux said easily. “You’ve belonged to clubs before… This is no different.”
Professor Deveaux wore a floor-length black silk dress with pearls. She looked refined and sophisticated, as if she had just come from the opera. Nothing about her indicated that she had just participated in some kind of academic sex game—save for the fancy cat’s eye mask now resting on a nearby desk.
Despite her flustered state, Chelsea gave her a skeptical stare. “No one’s ever been masked and naked at the clubs I’ve joined.”
Professor Deveaux fixed her with a cool gaze and merely smiled. “Evidemment. But we are a bit different, Chelsea. We are the Society of Erotica Authors. Erotics Anonymous, as we lovingly call it.” She smiled kindly to show she was jesting. “Once a month we get together to discuss our work…and then we enjoy a special kind of party.”
“You mean an orgy.” Chelsea heard the disapproval in her voice but couldn’t take it back. She inwardly cursed, hoping she hadn’t just offended the professor of her most crucial class.
Professor Deveaux shook her auburn head. “No, it’s really not the same. Personally, I prefer not to make love in public. We may be a little risqué to outside eyes but that is because we seek to create an erotic environment. Those who do prefer sex games are welcome to them, of course, but our meetings are more elegant. Sex clubs are nothing special—they are everywhere. What we do is provide inspiration…and that’s much harder to come by in today’s world, n’est ce pas?”
Chelsea frowned. “Inspiration?” It sounded like a euphemism to her.
“We cater to each other’s fantasies. That is the secret of our work, no? As artists, we cannot turn out the same old clichés on the page… We must write about the secret, embarrassing desires we all dream of.”
