Chapter 89: Partners in Crime
The black Mercedes slid to a stop not at the village hall, but halfway down a secluded lane, outside a low, modern building nestled in the frost-rimed garden of a cottage. Dolores’s studio. Light blazed from its floor-to-ceiling windows, but the blinds were drawn tight.
Margot stepped out, the satin of her dress whispering against the leather seat. The night air was knife-sharp, smelling of woodsmoke and frozen earth. She didn’t knock. She turned the handle and stepped inside.
The warmth hit her first, then the scent—jasmine candles overlaying the familiar smells of polish and wood. Then, the sight. The dance studio had been utterly transformed. The mirrored walls reflected a scene of deliberate, lavish decadence. The barre had been pushed aside. In its place stood an assortment of furniture she only knew from whispered recommendations and illicit websites: a crescent-shaped lounger upholstered in plum velvet, a cantilevered bench with thick restraints dangling open, a vast, low circular bed strewn with silk cushions. It was a parody of a high-end boudoir, curated with the same brisk efficiency the WI applied to a church flower festival.
And then there were the women.
Elizabeth stood by a small drinks trolley, pouring champagne. She was poured into a dress of midnight blue sequins so tight it looked spray-painted on, her silver bob sleek and severe. It was a dress that screamed silent auction and oligarchs’ yachts, not a village studio.
Henrietta laughed, a rich, throaty sound, from where she lounged on the circular bed. She wore leopard print, a wrap dress threatening to give up its precarious hold with every deep chuckle. Her cleavage was a magnificent, powdered shelf.
Charlie, looking like a nervous sparrow who’d been dipped in ink, stood by the mirrored wall. Her dress was a simple black slip, but it was backless, revealing a delicate spine and the stark white straps of a complicated-looking bra. She adjusted her glasses, a flush high on her cheeks.
Dolores herself emerged from a side storage room, and Margot’s breath caught. She wore fiery scarlet, a flamenco-inspired dress that clung to her still-formidable curves, the skirt a cascade of ruffles that would fly with the slightest turn. Her grey hair was a proud crown. She looked like a retired matador.
“Margot! The green!” Elizabeth declared, her cut-glass accent slicing the air. “A bold choice. Aquatic. Deceptive.”
“Like seaweed,” Henrietta boomed, winking. “Lures you in, then tangles you up.”
“You all look…” Margot began, her eyes wide, taking in the surreal glamour. “Incredible.”
“We feel incredible,” Dolores said, her voice a warm, smoky contrail. “It has been too long since this room was used for its true purpose. Paolo is… indisposed.” A knowing glance at the far mirrored wall, which for a second seemed to shimmer differently than the others. “He sends his encouragement.”
“Right,” Elizabeth said, clapping her hands once, a sound like a frozen twig snapping. “Briefing. The, ah, refreshments will arrive shortly. Six local lads, home from university. Vetted by Henrietta’s niece. All clear of complications, all enthusiastically consenting. The understanding is no-strings, discrete, and a night they will write home about, if they have the sense to omit the details.”
Charlie squeaked. “They’re so… young.”
“Precisely,” Elizabeth purred. “Energy. Stamina. And no tedious need for conversation about golf handicaps or the market.”
A soft, collective shiver of anticipation went through the room. It wasn’t just arousal; it was a crackling, vengeful glee. This was their reclaimed territory.
The headlights of a people carrier flashed across the blinds. A car door slammed, then another, voices young and muffled, laughing nervously.
“Places,” Dolores said, not moving from the center of the room.
Margot’s heart hammered against her ribs. She leaned against the velvet lounger, striking a pose that felt absurd and powerful. Elizabeth arranged herself regally on the cantilevered bench, a queen awaiting tribute. Henrietta let her leopard-print wrap fall open a decisive inch further. Charlie stood frozen, then seemed to decide to own her librarian-in-hell vibe, pushing her glasses up her nose with a sudden aura of intent.
The door opened.
They filed in, a blur of fresh faces, expensive haircuts, and the wholesome, clean scent of boyish shower gel meeting the jasmine-thick air. They stopped dead. Six pairs of eyes, wide as saucers, scanned the room, the furniture, the women. The sheer, audacious reality of it.
“Bloody hell,” one whispered, a tall lad with floppy hair.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Elizabeth said, her voice a dropped octave. “Champagne?”
That broke the spell. There was a clumsy shuffling, muttered thanks, hands accepting flutes. The boys were dressed in smart-casual uniforms: chinos, button-downs, clean trainers. They looked like they were awaiting a pub quiz, not an orgy.
Margot took a sip of her own champagne, the bubbles sharp on her tongue. She let her gaze travel over them, slow, appraising. She saw Adam Fletcher’s youngest, who used to deliver her papers. Ben Something from the rugby club. They were men now, broad-shouldered, but their awe was boyish. It was intoxicating.
“It’s a bit warm in here, don’t you think?” Henrietta said, her voice a playful rumble. Without waiting for an answer, she untied the belt of her wrap dress. Let it fall open. Underneath was a confection of black lace and sheer panels that barely contained her. A united, choked gasp filled the room.
It was the signal.
Elizabeth stood, and with a fluid, practiced motion, pulled the sequinned dress over her head. Beneath, she wore midnight blue lingerie of architectural complexity, all straps and cut-outs, her skin pale and flawless under the studio lights.
Dolores gave a twist, and the scarlet ruffles cascaded to the floor in a passionate pool. Her body was a testament to a lifetime of dance, firm and proud, sheathed in plain, devastatingly sheer crimson silk.
Charlie, with a shaky breath, simply let the black slip slither down her body. She stood in black lace bra and briefs, her posture defiant, her surprisingly pert breasts high and tipped in lace.
All eyes turned to Margot. The green satin. She held the gaze of the floppy-haired lad—Jamie, she remembered—as she reached for the side zip. The sound was loud in the hushed room. She shimmied, letting the dress fall. The coral-pink silk, the little ribbon bow, was revealed. A choice. Rupert’s choice.
A low groan came from one of the lads.
Now it was their turn. The women moved forward, not as predators, but as guides. Margot approached Jamie, her fingers going to the buttons of his shirt. “Let’s even the playing field, shall we?”
He didn’t resist. His skin was hot under her cool fingers. Around her, soft laughter, the rustle of fabric, the clink of belts. Henrietta was wagging a finger playfully at a bulky lad, helping him out of his polo shirt. Elizabeth, with surgical precision, was folding a boy’s chinos. Dolores simply commanded a lad to step out of his trousers with a click of her fingers.
Soon, they stood together in the center of the mirrored room: four women in the lingerie of their varied, powerful fantasies, and six young men in nothing but their cotton boxers, in various states of urgent, obvious arousal. Their faces were a beautiful mix of shock, reverence, and unbridled hunger.
The mirrors multiplied them into an army. The secret panel in the far wall watched, a dark, silent eye.
Elizabeth raised her champagne flute, her eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction.
“Now,” she said, the word hanging in the warm, charged air. “Shall we begin?”