For days after the Ball, my mood careened from ecstatic to morose. I’d flash back to scenes with Pierre in the limousine, and I’d have to squeeze my legs together to contain my longing. Other times, I’d plummet, because the flip side of a fantasy is that despite how real it feels, and how fantastically it’s executed, it is not, in fact, real.

Still, it was hard to resist poring over the society pages in the Times-Picayune, one of those New Orleans mainstays in a city that loved its benefits and balls. There I was, photographed in the background, of course, because Pierre Castille was the focus of the evening. The caption described me as the “Cinderella Seductress” who “captivated the Bayou Bachelor.” This provided endless fodder even for Dell, who seemed more impatient with me than she was with Tracina.

“Hey, Cinderella Seductress,” Dell teased, “any chance you could look after table ten for me? I got a prince picking me up tonight in a giant pumpkin. Pulling up right here on Frenchmen Street. Got any shoes I can borrow?”

Tracina, on the other hand, had grown more subdued. She seemed withdrawn, though I often got the feeling she was coiling up, storing her venom until a future opportunity to sting me presented itself.

I was admittedly occupied with thoughts of Pierre. When I met Matilda for one of our post-fantasy talks, I immediately asked about him: would I see him again? Had he asked about me? But before she opened her mouth, I already knew she’d advise against seeing him again for fear that I’d reignite something. Because by this time, we were both aware my body was drawn to men my mind knew were not necessarily right for me.

“It’s not that he’s a bad man, Cassie,” she said. “He’s generous and intelligent. But he can also be dangerous to any woman who believes him to be capable of more intimacy than he is.”

“If Pierre’s so dangerous, why did you recruit him?”

“Because he was perfect for that particular fantasy. I was thrilled when he called me and said yes. We’ve been trying to recruit him for years. And I knew you wouldn’t be disappointed. Isn’t that the fantasy you wanted to experience?”

“Yes, I did. But—”

“No buts.”

I nodded, on the brink of tears. Oh God, I thought, don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about. It was just a little fling. Some sex, great sex, but that’s it. Yet the tears flowed.

“Maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of thing,” I said, sniffling. I looked around Tracey’s to see if any of the men, the ones watching the game on TV, the ones eating their po’ boy sandwiches, had noticed. None had.

“Nonsense,” Matilda said, handing me a tissue. “Have your feelings—they’re normal ones. Pierre’s a powerful man. Any woman would swoon. To be honest, I was almost hoping he wouldn’t participate because there was a part of me that knew he’d have some kind of hold over you. But, Cassie, I can’t stress this enough. This is a fantasy, and men who participate don’t necessarily make great life partners. Cherish the moment and relish it, but let it go after.”

I nodded and blew my nose.

A few weeks later, winter covered the city with a surprise frost. I stepped out into the chilly air, pulling the door to the Spinster Hotel shut behind me. I was going for a quick run before my shift, surprised all over again that New Orleans even had a winter. And this year, it was not a mild one. It was freezing, and featured the kind of chill that gets in your bones and makes you want to sit in a hot bathtub for hours to warm up. I wore a hat, mitts and thermal underwear, but it took me several blocks before the run did its job of heating me up.

I ran down Mandeville to Decatur and took a right to the French Market, avoiding the waterfront and port lands so as not to be reminded of Pierre, who owned almost all of it. I wondered what he’d eventually do with all that vacant land. Build condos? Strip malls? Another casino? Will already grumbled about Marigny becoming “hipster heaven.” Too many tourists flooded Frenchmen, he said, and not the good kind, not the ones with a true appreciation of music and food but rather the kind in the tacky party hats with the take-away plastic drink glasses, who haggled down the prices for artisan jewelry at the open-air market.

I ran past the long line at Café Du Monde. Though it was a major tourist attraction and one that most New Orleanians avoided, I loved ending a run with a Du Monde coffee. The beignets, I skipped. What’s the point of running for forty minutes only to stop and eat a mountain of grease and sugar, Will always said. God, between Will and now Pierre, my mind was echoing with male voices. I had to shake them off.

When I returned home after my run, I was alarmed to find the front door open, even more alarmed to find Anna in the foyer of the Spinster Hotel, this time sifting through a large box wrapped in plain brown paper.

“Oh, Cassie, I’m so sorry,” she said, the look of a nabbed thief on her face. “I accidentally opened your package. When I signed for it, I thought it was for me. I’m getting old. And my eyes … but it’s a beautiful coat. And those shoes! Is this an early Christmas gift, my dear?”

I snatched the heavy box from her lap and examined the contents. Inside was a full-length camel coat with a simple tie. Next to it, a pair of black Christian Louboutin pumps with four-inch heels. I saw that Anna had opened the box, but not the card taped to the outside, thank goodness!

“It is a gift, Anna,” I said, trying to hide my distress at her nosiness. This was no accident. She was increasingly curious about my comings and goings, the limo’s presence a cause for concern every time it pulled up. Beside the coat and shoes there was also a small black velvet drawstring bag. Anna noticed it at the same time I did.

“What’s in there?” she asked, pointing.

“Gloves,” I said. I made up a lie about an assertive guy I had met at work whom I’d gone out with a couple of times and who was trying to woo me, adding in fake protest, “I wish he would stop buying me things. It’s too soon.”

“Nonsense!” she said. “Take it while you can.”

Back in the safe confines of my own apartment, I opened the card attached to the box. Step Seven: Curiosity. How apt, I thought. Anna would pass with flying colors. Next, I opened the velvet bag. Had she seen what was in it, she might have fainted.

The next day, just after sunset, the limo pulled into the U-shaped driveway and deposited me directly in front of the Mansion. The previous time I had been here, the limo had pulled into the side entrance. This time the car came to a full stop at the grand front entrance. I had become accustomed to waiting for the driver to open the limo door for me, something a girl from Michigan could never have imagined before, and again he obliged. I stepped onto the cobblestones wearing the heels, which were, to my surprise, quite comfortable. Perhaps because they had cost a small fortune. Looking up at the house that night, I saw every room was ablaze with that same ocher glow, as though it was waiting for me before it could come alive again. An Arctic chill nipped at my bare ankles, and I was grateful for the full-length coat covering the rest of me.

I slowly ascended the wide marble stairs that lead to the front double doors, my stomach lurching at the thought of what tonight’s fantasy would bring. I hoped that I had attained enough fearlessness, trust and confidence from the previous steps to really go through with this one. Those were the qualities I’d need to muster, Matilda told me. Plus, I needed something fulfilling and heady to push the final thoughts of Pierre out of my body, and Will out of my heart. I felt around in my pocket for the velvet bag. I had a feeling I’d accomplish both tonight.

Two knocks and Claudette greeted me in the foyer like an old acquaintance, falling short of the intimacy you’d use to meet a friend.

“I trust your ride here was comfortable?”

“It always is,” I said, looking around the imposing entrance, taking in its beautifully curved staircase. I was grateful that the room was dim and warm, almost too warm, the heat coming from the parlor to my left where I could see a roaring fire. I noted the gold balustrade and plush red carpet running up the middle of the steps. The black-and-white floor tiles formed a spiral that culminated in a coat of arms inlaid in the center. The design featured a willow tree shading three nude women, each with a different skin tone—white, brown, black—under which were carved the words: Nihil judicii. Nihil limitis. Nihil verecundiae.

“What does that mean?” I asked Claudette.

“Our motto: No judgments. No limits. No shame.”

“Right.”

“Did you bring it?” she asked.

She didn’t have to specify what “it” was. “Yes, I did.” I pulled the velvet bag out of my pocket and handed it to her.

“It’s time,” she said, taking the bag from me and stepping behind me. I could hear her open the drawstring. Seconds later, she was securing a black satin blindfold across my eyes.

“Can you see anything?”

“No.” And I couldn’t. Just utter blackness. Claudette’s hands were on my shoulders, pulling off my coat. And before I could even ask about what I was supposed to do next, I heard her quietly pad away.

For several minutes, I stood there, hardly moving. The only sounds I could hear were the crackling of the fire, the clack of my heels as I nervously shifted my weight from one leg to the other and the tinkle of my bracelet every time I moved my arm. I was grateful the room was so warm, because apart from my blindfold and heels, I wasn’t wearing a thing. The Step card had specified that I should bring the velvet bag in my pocket and arrive wearing only the camel coat and heels. I stood for what felt like forever blindfolded and naked, waiting for the fantasy to begin.

After a while, I found that without sight, my other senses became heightened. At one point I was certain someone was in the foyer with me even though I hadn’t heard anyone enter. I could just sense a presence, one that sent a slight shiver down my spine.

“Is anyone here?” I asked. “Please say something.” There were no words, but a few seconds later, I heard breathing.

“Someone is here,” I said. Despite the intense heat, I began to shiver out of nervousness. “What do you want me to do?”

I heard a man clear his throat, which caused me to jump.

“Who are you?” I asked, a little too loudly. I was blindfolded, not deaf, but for some reason my voice projected more than usual.

“Make a quarter turn to your left,” the voice said. “Take five steps and stop.”

It had a very sexy timbre, maybe belonging to a man who was a little older, perhaps someone used to being in charge. I did as instructed, sensing I was heading towards this voice.

“Please put your hands out.” I did so. “Now walk forward until you touch me.”

There was something about the languidness in his voice that pulled me forward. I took one, then two careful steps, aware how blindness can seriously throw off your balance. I stretched out my hands until they made contact with toned, warm flesh. Though I didn’t have the nerve to let my hands trail down, I got the sense that he was naked, too, and tall, with a taut, broad chest.

“Cassie, do you accept the Step?”

His voice was like liquid smoke, his s’s curling around the vowels.

“Yes, I do,” I said, with a little too much enthusiasm perhaps, as I finally let my hands trail down the sides of his lean torso and back up his stomach to his collarbone. I realized that my shyness was gone, it had melted, or I had left it somewhere at Halo, or maybe in the middle of the Gulf, or perhaps in the back of a limo. I didn’t know, couldn’t remember, and didn’t care.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter, Cassie. May I?”

“May you what?”

“Touch your skin?”

I dropped my hands to my sides, as willing as I’d ever been to submit. I nodded as he stepped so close to me I could feel his fingers brush my nipples, which were already responding. He moved his hands slowly, artfully, across my breasts, cupping one and taking it into his cool, wet mouth. His other arm wrapped around me, lingering at my buttocks and pulling me into him so that our bodies were pressed skin to skin. I could feel him hard against my thigh. His hand slid behind me and up. I was already wet.

I remembered how in the beginning it had taken a while for my body to respond, but now, my passion was instant. I wanted him. No, not him. How could I want him, a man I didn’t even know? But I wanted this. All of this. And I began to understand what Matilda meant when she said that if I could get back into my body, I could move thoughts of Pierre out of my head. Then, just as quickly as things had begun, the man released me from his hot embrace and I almost tipped over on my heels.

“Where are you?” I asked, my hands reaching into the air around me. “Where did you go?”

“Follow my voice, Cassie.”

It was now coming from the other side of the foyer. I turned slightly to follow it. We were moving away from the fire, away from the warmth of the parlor to another room, a different room.

“That’s right, one foot in front of the other,” he whispered. “Do you know how sexy you look wearing just those heels?”

His words were making me hotter and wetter, as I carefully made my way towards his voice, my arms out in front of me. I felt the warmth of another fire on the front of my body. When I felt carpet under my heels, I almost tripped.

“There’s a chair right in front of you. Two more steps.” My fingers hit a highback wooden chair, which felt as big as a throne. I took a seat on what felt like a raw silk cushion. I felt self-conscious of what my stomach looked like in a seated position. I pressed my legs together. Stop it, Cassie. Now’s not the time to think. The silk felt lovely under my butt, though, and my hands began stroking the fabric. I could sense the man moving around the room until he was directly behind my chair.

I felt his large, warm hands on my shoulders, caressing my skin. They trailed up my neck, where he left one hand cradling the back of my neck, while the other fetched something in front of us. The rim of a glass grazed my lips, and my nose was hit with the warm, full-bodied smell of red wine.

“Take a sip, Cassie.”

He gently tipped the glass forward. I took an eager gulp. I was no connoisseur, but the wine tasted rich and layered. I don’t know if I tasted oak or cherry or chocolate tones, but I knew it was probably the most expensive wine I had ever swallowed. I heard him gently place the glass back on the table. Seconds later he moved in front of me and his mouth was on mine, his tongue searching. He tasted like wine, too, and chocolate. Every cell inside me came alive to his taste and touch, smell and feel. Then he stopped.

“Are you hungry, Cassie?”

I nodded.

“What are you hungry for?”

“You.”

“That’s later. First, open that delicious mouth of yours.”

I did so and he began rubbing morsels of fruit across my lips, leaving me just enough time to smell them and then reach out my tongue for a delicate taste. I tasted the juicy flesh of a mango, and when my tongue curled around a small slice that he proffered with his fingers, I licked them both. Then he fed me some strawberries, one after the other, some dipped in chocolate, others in cream. But it was the truffles that sent me over the edge; he only allowed me to lick and nibble at the edges, never letting me have a full bite. After each swallow, he pressed his mouth to mine, kissing me. I couldn’t see his face, but the sensation was excruciating, the way he urged my mouth open with his tongue.

Then he was straddling my legs, standing over me as I lay back in my cushioned throne. I could feel his naked thighs against the outside of mine. I gulped as he grabbed the chair’s wooden arms, jerking it forward.

“Hold your hands out,” he said, and when I did, I came in contact with him, firm, warm and soft.

I wrapped a hand around him, eagerly bringing him to my mouth. Using both hands, I took him in deeper, feeling the pleasure I was giving, of pleasing, coming over me again. I imagined what I must look like in this chair, blindfolded, in heels, with this beautiful body over me. A tingle passed through me at the thought.

“Stop, Cassie,” he said, easing back from my mouth. “That feels amazing, but you have to stop.”

He lifted me off the seat and onto my feet. My limbs were wobbly with desire. Standing behind me, he walked me forward a few feet, placing my hands on what I thought was the arm of a silk divan. I took in the smell of oranges and wine and vanilla candles. I could hear the fire spit and spark in front of us, and my heart raced. My back arched as I felt his hands firmly grasp both sides of my hips, tugging me back towards him. I could feel his desire for me, and he hardened and stiffened more.

“I’m going to put myself inside you now, Cassie. Do you want that?”

I lifted up to him, to show him that yes, I wanted this, very much.

“Tell me, Cassie. Say it.”

“I want you,” I whispered, my voice choked the feeling.

“Say it, Cassie. Tell me you want it.”

“I do! I want it!”

“Say it!”

“I want you. I want you inside me. Now!” I commanded.

I heard him ripping open a packet, and seconds later, I felt all of him slide into me, plunging deep and fast and hard. I felt him reach around and under me, his fingers touching me in a dazzling rhythm. His other held my hip so firmly he was practically lifting me up off the floor. He gathered a fistful of my hair and tugged my head gently backwards. His hands trailed down my arched back, finally grabbing my buttocks and kneading them with an intensity that sent me spinning. His low growls made me feel like I was driving him mad.

“You look so hot with your ass in the air like this, Cassie. I love it. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Say it. Say it louder.”

“I love it … I love fucking you like this,” I said, surprising myself with the words. It felt animalistic but so divine.

He spread my legs open wider, and began moving harder and faster.

“Oh God,” I said. It was all happening at once and so fast, desire gathering a storm inside me.

“You can come now. I want you to come, Cassie,” he urged, and that’s what I did, full-bodied and wholeheartedly. Then he followed. And when he was done, he pulled away and I lay forward across the divan, so completely spent that I slid gently onto the bearskin rug and lay there on my back. I felt him slide down next to me. I went to lift my blindfold.

“Don’t,” he said, grabbing my hand, keeping the blindfold intact.

“But I want to see you. I want to look at the face capable of doing that to my body.”

“I value my anonymity.”

Sensing my frustration, he leaned towards my face and took my hand in his.

“Here, feel my face,” he offered. “But leave the blindfold on.”

He took my hand and brought it to his slightly stubbly cheek. I felt a sharp, angular jaw, wide-set eyes, soft hair, longish, with sideburns at the temple. My fingers caressed a wide mouth, and he playfully bit them. Then my hand moved once more down his muscular chest and across his taut stomach.

“You feel amazing,” I said.

“Right back at you … But it’s time for me to go, Cassie. Before I do, open your hand.”

I did so and felt him press a small round coin—my Step Seven charm, Curiosity—into my damp palm. It felt more delicate and fragile when I couldn’t see it, like the slightest squeeze would crush it.

“Thank you,” I said, my body still vibrating. I listened to him pad away towards the exit.

Seconds later, he whispered his goodbye.

“Bye,” I said.

After he shut the door quietly behind him, I pulled off the blindfold and looked around the room. It was stunning, masculine, a big oak desk in the middle and wall-to-wall books on three sides. The thick sandalwood candles flickered on the table, where a big bowl of oranges rested. I sat there naked, fingers combing through the hairs of the plush bearskin rug on which I lay. The fire gradually dwindled.

As I secured my Step Seven charm to my bracelet, I wondered what he had looked like, my new, mysterious man, the one who had gone just moments before, leaving me sated and curious, and fully alive to myself.