TouchNode | Complete

7 | Blowing Temperatures

You're hot, then you're cold. Perhaps it's best I tell you no.

Euphrates was ignoring me. Flat out, no nonsense ignoring me. The last two parties, the last two nights, I'd been trapped in a back corner of the party forced to watch him converse with the other partygoers.

My mind seemed to be playing tricks on me, for I was sure that when I turned away I could feel his gaze burning down the side of my face, but when I turned to search for the source, I found only the sight of his muscled back. Over and over I replayed the scene at the Frees party, trying to find the point where his obvious obsession melted to nothingness. It surprised me when I felt myself hoping that his behavior was simply to fool Carter and Ballarina, and that I hadn't lost his interest.

I watched him, flitting from group-to-group with a drink gripped in one hand. The tumbler of dark liquid I knew would be bourbon was steadily emptying as he took methodical drag after drag from the lip. He turned his head to the side when he walked passed me, deliberately staring at the other TouchNode in the room, Arabella.

All attention was focused on her and the theatrics she employed. Rolling my eyes, I look away from the scene with a blank face - ignoring my personal disdain. She prized the level of attention she received and enjoyed the wondering unlearned hands of the attendees.

Madame Cecile-Rose would surely be sneaking around her soon, her arm firmly clasped with Carter's as he led her about like a prized peacock. Arabella would fit right in, and make a pretty penny. A line of young men and women had began to form around her, watching as she rode the face of Russian Billionaire, and current party host, Mikael Romanov to a squirting screaming finish.

The partygoers flowed around me, pressing closer together to let another group into the oversized party room. Groaning, I straightened, Prime Minister Cornveil was back. Alongside her was her wife, and a young man with a shock of red hair. They cloistered together, blocking me in from all sides. Cornveil's hand flattened against my abdomen and slid downwards to disappear into my panties.

She pinched and pressed my clit as she dragged her tongue across my neck. Her breath was hot and stank of alcohol, but she seemed in relative control of her movements. Mrs. Patricia Cornveil, her wife, stepped behind me and dropped to her knees. I felt her fingers gently pulling my panties down, then her tongue joined her wife's fingers inside my pussy.

Bored, I clenched my hands into fists, and stared down their male companion. His bright red hair paired perfectly with his pale skin, winking blue eyes and thin lips, stuck out against the sea of blondes, brunettes and dark-haired upper echelon. A soft smile was on his face and he seemed relaxed, despite the fact that the women he accompanied were currently... distracted.

He inched closer, and held out a hand for me to shake. His Irish accent surprised me, and so did his title. "I'm Nicholas Ironside, son of Arben Ironside."

My eyebrows pulled together as I attempted to place his last name, "... Ironside?" I muttered aloud, "where have I heard that name?"

"Ironside Industries," he filled in, "we created a new metal last year. They're using it to build airplanes now. It just passed regulations in the US."

"I--" My voice cut off as I jumped, Patricia's fingers were pressing slowly into my anus as her tongue rimmed the small pucker. "Sorry." I shook my head and regathered my thoughts, "I remember seeing that in the news, but I'm sure I've seen you on something else."