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In the elevator, the mood changed quickly from jovial to sensual. None of them spoke.
Outside her door, Zane paused and tipped her chin with his thumb.
“Are you sure you want to let us into your home?” he asked.
“I am.”
“There is no pressure, Alexis.” Rod peered into her eyes ardently. “We have waited for you for months,mi amor,” he said. “We don’t want you to feel pressure to be intimate with us.”
“Um, can I remind you of how we all spent the last two hours?” She chuckled with a raised eyebrow.
Her men both laughed, and Zane quipped, “That was just sex. You’re letting us into your home; that’s real intimacy, that’s personal.”
“I can tell you that having an ice dildo shoved into you feels pretty frickin’ personal, matey,” she sassed. “I think I can cope with letting you see my kitchen.”
Zane shrugged in acceptance and Alexis unlocked the door to her apartment. Rod held it open and they all stepped in.
In the foyer, Rod cupped both sides of her face with his hands and brushed his lips ever-so-gently over hers. Alexis put her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes to reach him as she pulled him closer into her. Her lips parted and she welcomed him in.
It was a sweet and tender first kiss. Which was a little strange, given that they’d already had sex, but that only made it more thrilling for Alexis.
Plus, she knew sweet and tender would be out the window in a matter of minutes.
The marauding debauchery was soon to begin.
“Ready to see the dungeon?” she offered when they broke apart.
“Where in the world do you have an S&M dungeon in here?” Rod asked. “This is a two-bedroom apartment, fifty floors off the ground. You got it set up in the basement laundry room with your neighbors?” he joshed.
Alexis smiled.
“I think you were lying again, just to get my pants off,” he accused.
Alexis took each of them by the hand and led them through the tastefully decorated apartment.
“Everyone thinks this is a two-bedroom condo,” she explained, her eyes glinting.
They stopped before a locked door. Alexis retrieved the key from her keychain.
“Everyone assumes this is the utility room….” she said, holding the door wide.
For the first time, both men were speechless and wide-eyed.
Alexis just beamed.
“Well, cleave me to the brisket,” Rod finally declared in a comical sing-song pirate’s voice.
Alexis’s secret dungeon was located in the unused master bedroom of the apartment, which was a cavernous room in the corner of the building. There were three double-lancet windows on the two exterior walls of the chamber. Thick, dark burgundy curtains had been drawn over all but one of the windows, leaving the room almost black. Just like the keel and hull of a medieval war ship, the scarred old walls were paneled with dark, grainy oak. The wood floor was made of swirling English walnut. Even the ceiling had been covered with expensive old wood, and five thick wooden beams crossed it. A medieval wrought-iron chandelier in the shape of a wheel graced the center of the room. Real tallow candles dripped, half-consumed from both the chandelier and an array of wall sconces placed strategically about the chamber.
Rod looked around wordlessly while Zane began inspecting various fixtures with an expert eye.
Alexis watched them, gauging their reaction to her masterpiece.
Every square inch of the place had been decorated like the captain’s cabin of an old Spanish galleon from the days of yore. The construction was entirely of salvaged building materials—only from preserved historical ships or verifiable shipwrecks. She had taken painstaking measures to procure authentic medieval antiques from reputable brokers; she had crisscrossed Europe year after year in search of every perfect detail for her fantasy torture chamber.
A huge, ornate, antique tester-bed hulked in the center of the room; the 17th-century four-poster was worth more than the average “wealthy” American made in a year. The shipping had cost her an arm and a leg. The canopy was hung with crisp, white mosquito netting—the only item less than two centuries old in the entire collection. Even the luxurious gold-and-garnet bedding consisted of myriad silk and satin coverlets and throw pillows from the 1800s.
To the left of the door hung an array of genuine cat o’ nine tails, buggy whips, and pain-inducing quirts—all of them real, all of them used. On the right was a collection of antique pirate cutlasses and serpent’s-tongue floggers. Further to the right, the en suite bathroom door was ajar; above it was a hand-painted sign on a piece of driftwood that read Davey Jones’s Locker. If it weren’t in the middle of a full-blown chamber of horrors, it would have been comical.
