“You’re mine,” I grunted.
“More,” she moaned.
I fucked her harder, my hands gripping her hips, bruising, angling her.
She came again, her pussy clenching so tight I saw stars, her body convulsing under me, her scream raw and unhinged.
I didn’t stop, flipping her onto her stomach, pulling her ass up, spreading her cheeks to see her pussy, red and swollen, dripping with her arousal and mine.
“Again,” she begged, pushing back. I thrust in, deeper, my cock stretching her, my hands bruising her hips, fucking her like the world was ending.
“More,” she growled, her voice a snarl, her mask still hiding her face, making her a stranger I knew too well.
I reached around, stroking her clit, driving her over the edge again. Her orgasm was a tidal wave, her pussy milking me, her body shaking so hard the bed groaned. I roared, my release tearing through me, hot and endless, spilling into her as I marked her inside and out.
But I wasn’t done.
I pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and spread her legs again, thrusting back in, slow now, deliberate, each stroke a conversation. Her pussy was swollen, sensitive, and she whimpered, oversensitive but craving more.
I fucked her deep, my thumb circling her clit, building her up again, her moans soft, desperate.
She came a final time, a shuddering wave, her pussy pulsing, her breath hitching, and I followed, my release a slow burn that left me raw.
We collapsed, panting, slick with sweat and come, the room spinning around us.
The mask, the bourbon, the heat of her body clouded my mind. But as I looked down at her, her scent lingering, a flicker of recognition stirred, too faint to grasp. It didn’t matter. Not then. All that mattered was the way she burned, and how I’d burn with her again if I got the chance.
7
SLOANE
The ceiling had crown molding like a wedding cake and a chandelier that cost more than some condos. But I couldn’t focus on that. Not with the way my heart was still thudding in my chest. Not with the way his body was tangled with mine, skin to skin, breath to breath.
I stared up at the ceiling like it might offer clarity—or maybe forgiveness.
It didn’t.
Beside me, he was silent. Not cold, not awkward. Just … still. Like a man who knew how to let the aftermath settle without rushing to fill the space. His hand rested against my thigh, warm and heavy. Possessive.
We were still wearing our masks.
The thought made me laugh—quietly, breathlessly. The sound startled even me.
He turned his head, the edge of his mask rustling against the pillow. “Something funny?”
I swallowed a grin. “I was just thinking about how ridiculous this all is.”
“Because of the masks?”
“No,” I said, shifting just enough to glance at him, “because I don’t even know your name and we just defiled someone’s four-thousand-thread-count sheets.”
He smirked. “Five thousand. Egyptian cotton. Langford doesn’t do anything underwhelming.”
“You know her?”
“Not biblically,” he said, stretching an arm behind his head. “But I recognize her taste in chandeliers.”
That made me laugh again. A real one this time. Full and unfiltered.
