Anew: The Epilogue (5 page)

As I do so, my gaze meets Ian’s.
My husband is crouched by the fire but he isn’t tending to the fish cooking
there. Instead, he’s watching me. He appears a bit startled but definitely
intrigued. A slow, supremely masculine smile curves his mouth.

“Enjoy your nap, sweetheart?” he
asks.

I flush but decide to brazen it
out. “I might have if I’d slept just a little longer.”

Ian chuckles. “Come over here.
The trout are ready.”

As he speaks, I become aware of
the aroma on the air, lightly sweet and smoky, compounded of the wood, the fish
cooking on it, and the wild herbs he’s added to them. Just as he promised, I’ve
never smelled anything so good.

“We’ll tend to one appetite,” my
husband says as I sit down beside him. “And then we can discuss how you’d like
to collect your winnings.”

Recalling his words of this
morning, I gather my courage and smile. “It’s my turn to surprise you.”

“When did you find this?” Ian asks. We’re standing in the
dressing room of our suite. I’ve moved aside some of the hanging clothes to
show him the small gold plaque set into the wall behind them, positioned so
discreetly as to be concealed from any casual observer.

“When I was here before,” I reply, moving on quickly. I
don’t want him to dwell on the circumstances in which I made my discovery while
at the same time I was discovering so much else in the sensual realm, thanks to
him.

“I came across it one day while I was getting dressed. It
struck me as a strange place to put such a thing. At first, I couldn’t imagine
what the plaque could be for.”

He nods and bends down for a better look. I know he can make
out the elegant, cursive script etched into the gold. Softly, he reads, “The
Cabinet of Secret Delights”.

Straightening, my husband looks at me. His amber eyes are
hooded, watchful. I feel his gaze at the core of my being.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

As close as we are, the heat of his body caresses me through
the thin white cotton dress that I’m wearing. My nipples are pebble-hard, every
inch of my skin yearning for his touch. I know him well enough now to be
confident that I am not alone in my desire. If the telltale bulge in his jeans
isn’t indication enough, the flush along his high cheekbones and the molten
glitter of his gaze would settle the matter. With very little effort, we could
lose ourselves in the golden bed.

But I’ve kept this secret long enough. It’s time to share it
with him.

“I asked myself the same question,” I say softly. “This
dressing room is filled with built-in racks, drawers, and shelves but nothing
that could be called a cabinet. The clothes are certainly a delight but
‘secret’ didn’t seem to fit anything. Then I looked at the plaque more
closely.”

As I speak, I point to the small depression in the shape of
the pad of a thumb that is just barely visible next to the lettering.

 “It accepts my imprint. I’m wondering if it also accepts
yours.”

He holds my gaze long enough to make clear that he has
questions--what I kept from him, why I did so, and why I’m revealing it now. He
won’t have to wonder about the first much longer. As for the rest…I just have
to hope that he will understand.

At the touch of Ian’s thumb against the soft, gleaming
metal, a scanner whirs, followed almost instantly by a click. A hidden door in
the wall we are facing swings open a few inches, revealing a crack of light.
With that, I realize that we were always both intended to access what lies on
the other side.

Ian pushes the door open wider and takes my hand. Together,
we step into a room only slightly smaller than the golden bedroom behind us. Windowless,
it is softly lit by recessed lighting in the ceiling and walls that I know from
past experience comes on when the plaque is touched.

As before, my first impression is that the room is a study
in beauty and opulence. Its size is magnified by the gilded mirrors hanging in
ornately carved gold frames that cover almost all the walls from top to bottom.
A soaring ceiling rises to the dome at its center. The floor is covered by a
finely woven carpet in shades of hunter green, ivory, and ox blood red.

The same colors are picked up by the ceiling mural that
depicts the god Zeus in pursuit of various nubile females. Successful pursuit,
it appears, as the god is shown plunging his impressive endowment into a
succession of startled beauties.

Carnality hangs thick in the air lightly scented by leather
and sandalwood.

Softly, I say, “My first thought was that this was intended
as some sort of private retreat, a place for study or contemplation. But
then--”

I break off. Just as I did when I saw all this for the first
time, Ian has noticed the odd furnishings. I hold my breath, wondering how he
will react. There is so much in his past, the memories he has had to confront,
the demons he has fought. But we have come so far together, both accepting of
one another, honest about our needs and desires.

Even so, I scarcely breathe as I wait for him to come to his
own conclusions about the purpose of this hidden room.

Near where we stand is a rectangular bench upholstered in ox
blood leather and set on black wrought iron legs. Iron rings are positioned at
intervals along the bench. Several other pieces in the room are done in the
same colors and style. One looks like a saddle horse, the other is a chair of
sorts divided so that the legs of an occupant would be spread wide. Restraints
in the form of stirrups dangle from it.

Several other items are more recognizable. One is a
gracefully elegant chaise lounge, carved and gilded in the style of the room, a
voluptuous piece of furniture filled with curves and pillowed surfaces. The
other is a large chair, really a throne, set at the far end of the room and
positioned to observe all parts of it. Directly opposite this is a polished
wooden X more than six feet high. Secured to the far wall, it is padded with
leather and studded with more of the iron rings.

So far, Ian’s only response is an arched eyebrow. But when
his attention is drawn to a large armoire carved with images of satyrs and
nymphs, he frowns. Opening the double doors and the drawers fitted behind them,
he discovers the array of implements that frankly shocked me when I came across
them before. Some I definitely want nothing to do with but certain others…

My husband lingers a few moments, studying the contents, then
shuts the armoire’s doors. His silence is unsettling. I have no idea what he is
thinking. Nervousness flutters in my abdomen as he turns, his gaze settling on
the object that occupies the center of the room. It’s the one part of all this
that puzzles me the most.

“It’s a cage,” I say, rather unnecessarily since it
obviously is that. A beautiful, gilded cage six feet in diameter and at least
half again as tall, constructed of roped wrought iron curled into scrollwork. “But
I don’t really understand the point of it.”

“Don’t you?” Ian asks softly. His eyes glitter like amber
shards of fire. I sense the coiled tension in him and wonder what will happen
when it is unleashed. A shiver runs through me, not of fear but of
anticipation.

“Then let me enlighten you,” he continues as he stalks
toward me across the gilded room. I stand, enthralled, unable to move or take
my eyes from him.

Oh, my.
He’s not upset or worse yet, disgusted. On
the contrary. He’s confronting this honestly, both what the room represents and
what he himself desires. My gaze drifts down his magnificent body, lingering at
the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

Softly, he says, “The thought of keeping you entirely for
myself, surrounded by every luxury but always close to my hand, captive to my will,
available whenever I choose for whatever I desire has a certain appeal.”

My breath catches. Never mind that I’m far too strong-willed
and independent to want that. The notion of it, the fantasy is undeniably
arousing.

 “Of course,” Ian adds, “I’d never actually do it but that’s
what this cage is meant to evoke.” He glances at it again, his gaze narrowing,
assessing. Slowly, he says, “Although, it may have an additional purpose.”

As I watch, at once anxious and fascinated, he approaches
the cage and moves his hand over the scrollwork. To my surprise, I realize that
what I took to be open spaces between the metal are in fact solid.

Ian’s mouth curves in a smile. “Well, well…” He looks amused
but also intrigued. “I heard that these were becoming available.”

“These? What are you talking about? What is this?” I can’t contain
my anxiousness, compounded as it is of fascination with his response and the
inevitable heightening of my own desire.

He laughs softly and opens the door of the cage.

“You’re aware that much of the training my people do is in
virtual reality simulators?” As I nod, he goes on. “They can be programmed to
create essentially any setting or type of experience. The results are so
detailed--so real, if you will--that the brain simply accepts them as such and
responds accordingly.”

“All right, but what has that got to do with this?”

“Virtual reality simulators are becoming available for
private use. They’re still very expensive and therefore rare but eventually
they’ll be a standard form of entertainment.” His chiseled mouth curves in a
smile of sinful temptation. “One with all sorts of possibilities.”

As the meaning of what he’s saying sinks in, I stare at the
cage in astonishment. If I understand him correctly, far from being a means of
confinement, it’s a portal to a potentially limitless number of ‘realities’.
Given where it’s been placed, I can only assume that each and every one of them
is intended for sensual pleasure.

“Do you think it works?” I ask.

“There’s no reason why it shouldn’t but are you game to find
out?”

Am I?

My heart is racing. I still find the Cabinet of Secret
Delights somewhat unnerving for all that aspects of it appeal to me. But this…this
is freedom of the most wanton and delightful kind.

Without hesitation, I hold out my hand. He takes it and
draws me up with him into the cage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

We are standing on an open skyway above the dance floor of
an upscale club. The walls, floor, and ceiling are a shimmering gray that
vibrates in time to the throbbing music and the writhing mass of bodies below.
The energy of the crowd moving to the sultry, seductive beat rises in waves
toward us.

With a few taps by Ian on the control panel, all evidence of
the cage has vanished. We’re no longer in a hidden, intimate room of the
palazzo. Instead, we’re amid a crush of people swept up in a rip tide of
sensual pleasure. The barriers between fantasy and reality have collapsed. The
effect is beyond dizzying.

My husband’s hands are on my hips, my back to his chest. The
warmth of his body enfolds me. I shiver at his touch, well aware of how
constant my desire for him is. I’m so primed to this man, so attuned to the
sound of his voice, his glance, the scent of his skin. Need tightens in me.

 He leans forward, his lips brushing my ear. “Do you like
this?”

I hesitate. The scene is so intense, a battering of the
senses that demands surrender. It throws me momentarily. But the high of the
dancers, their uninhibited pleasure in themselves and each other, transports
me.

Slowly, I nod. “It’s incredible.”

Caught up in the music, I hardly realize that I’ve begun to
sway until Ian growls low in his throat and pulls my bottom tighter against his
groin. The feel of his erection--hard, long, straining against the fabric of
his jeans--makes heat pool in my core. I arch my back, leaning forward, and
instinctively begin a slow bump-and-grind.

He wraps an arm around my waist, grasping the skirt of my
dress as he does so and drags it up. I feel a sudden rush of air against my
cleft and gasp. The sound is smothered when his other hand cups my jaw, turning
my face to him. He takes my mouth in a wet, hot kiss, his tongue stabbing
deeply, again and again. Meanwhile, his long, skillful fingers slip into the
gap between my thighs and stroke me through my panties.

“Fuck,” he rasps, wrenching his mouth from mine, “you’re so
wet and you get me so hard.”

I swallow a moan and move more quickly, wanting him to feel
what I feel, need what I need, lose himself in me as surely as I am lost in
him.

“Keep still,” he commands and continues his teasing,
tormenting caress.

I don’t even try to obey. Instead, I move more swiftly,
grinding to the music, my head falling back and my eyes closing as I’m swept up
by the ecstatic euphoria of the crowd.

A sudden, hard yank makes me gasp.

“Bad girls don’t get to wear panties,” Ian says. He finishes
tearing mine away and, to my shock, tosses them off the skyway. They flutter, a
white scrap of lace and silk, down onto the dancers below. A young man looks up
in time to see them coming. He laughs, makes a grab, and catches them, then
shoots Ian a grin.

In the back of my mind, I know that the man, what he just
did, even the sight of my panties seemingly falling onto the crowd are all an
illusion created by the simulator. But the effect is so real that my brain
doesn’t care. Adrenaline surges as I feel suddenly very exposed.

But Ian is far from done. His heavily muscled thigh thrusts
between mine, widening my stance. Before I can begin to grasp what he intends,
he plunges a finger into my hot, wet pussy.

“I’m going to make you come first,” he says, “right here,
right now.”

My legs wobble, I can barely stand. The music is louder, the
stropping lights brighter. I can’t think, can’t reason, can’t do anything but
feel. He thrusts a second finger into me and flicks his thumb over my clit.