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“Yes,” I said.
She grinned, took my hand, and led me into the candlelight. The billiard table was a landscape of bodies, and I was welcomed onto it like a lost cousin. Someone pulled off my tricorn. Somebody undid my cravat. Gold Glove, twenty-nine like she’d said, undid my trousers and went down on her knees on the baize with her hands on my thighs.
“Is this good?” she asked.
“Fantastic.”
Her mouth was wet and clever. I held on to the cue rack and groaned, and a woman in a white lace mask put her mouth on my neck and a hand on my arse, and the devil man, who had finished between somebody’s thighs, wandered over and murmured, “Mind if I join?” and I said, “Please.”
I ended up on the leather sofa with the woman in lace riding me hard, her breasts in my hands, her friend in a leopard mask kneeling over my face, tasting like peach and sweat. Somebody’s hands, I didn’t know whose, stroked my balls. Somebody’s tongue found the lace woman’s clit, and she came with a scream, clenching around me.
I came with a groan I could feel in my knees. Cheers. Actual applause, which was frankly a bit much.
The room hummed. People swapped. People laughed, checked in, drank water. I fell asleep on a heap of velvet cushions at four, and woke at ten with a hangover, a stranger’s stocking round my neck, and an immense, stupid grin.
Ending 11 of 16: Billiard Room. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.