The kind of laugh that had no place in a room this pristine.
We were both still catching our breath, sweat drying on skin that had no business touching in the first place. But the whole thing felt … oddly light. Charged, sure. But not heavy. Not like a mistake. More like the kind of secret that would still make me smirk years from now, whenever I passed a man in a tux with a jaw that could crack granite.
I wasn’t the kind of girl who carried guilt. I liked sex. Always had. And not the choreographed kind with polite lighting and feelings woven into every thrust. I liked the kind that left me dizzy. Breathless. On the edge of something dangerous. It wasn’t about filling some emotional hole. It was about blowing off steam before I imploded in silk and highlighter and quiet rage.
But even for me, this? This was a first.
No names. No awkward post-date recap. Just chemistry, heat, and a shared disregard for rules.
And God—he was good. Confident without being cocky, strong without being too rough. The kind of lover who didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask for permission with words because he already knew the answer from the way your body arched into his. His hands were capable—like they’d built things and broken them. His mouth? Criminal. The way he kissed me should’vebeen illegal in at least seven states. I’d felt it in my knees. In my bones. In places I wasn’t even sure I wanted to name.
And somehow, with the masks still on and a mansion full of Charleston’s finest twirling cocktails downstairs, it hadn’t felt cheap. It had felt …rightin a way that made absolutely no sense.
I didn’t know his name.
But I knew how he made me feel.
I sat up, the silk sheets slipping to my waist. “This party is terrible.”
“The worst,” he agreed, rolling to his side, eyes raking over me like he couldn’t help himself. “Not even good champagne.”
“I didn’t even have any,” I said. “I walked in, saw too many people I used to fake-smile at, and walked out again. Straight into this mess.”
“I helicoptered in.”
I blinked. “You what?”
He stretched again, lazy and maddeningly smug. “Didn’t want to deal with traffic.”
I stared at him. “You’re joking.”
He gave a casual shrug, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you, if you could?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I might have.
I leaned back on my elbows and let myself enjoy the moment. The high. The strange, quiet buzz of post-orgasm bliss in the middle of someone else’s mansion. What were they going to do—throw me out?
But then, as if conjured, the bedroom door burst open.
“What the hell?—”
No.
No.
It wasn’t Momma. It wasn’t even Quentin.
It was worse.
Lydia Langford.
In head-to-toe black sequins, a feathered mask perched on top of her head like a damn crown, she stormed into the room with the fury of a thousand whispered scandals.
“Oh,my God,” she shrieked, eyes bulging as she took in the scene—me, very naked; him, also very naked; the sheets, absolutely ruined. “Are you serious right now? My bed?”
I grabbed a pillow and barely managed to cover myself. “I—uh?—”
