Her eyes lift, catching mine.
“One night,” I promise. “Say yes.”
I swear her eyes glimmer as she smiles, and I scold my heart for picking up its pace. She hasn’t agreed yet.
It attempts a weak protest as she makes me wait, picking up her glass and taking a slow sip, teasing me with the elegant line of her throat. The long drag of her tongue across her bottom lip is akin to torture.
I really need her to say yes.
Her breath hitches. “Now?”
“Now, later,always… take your pick.”
The fill of her lips calls to me. All I want is to reach up and discover them. Their warmth, the way her breath would catch if I slipped my thumb between them. My tongue.
“Say yes, Ivy. Leave the rest up to me.”
CHAPTER7
MASKS ON
LINCOLN
Arranging for a bespoke mask to be overnighted from Venice isn’t cheap, but it’s well worth it when Ivy slips it on, the sculpted wool paper hugging the round curve of her cheekbones and coating more than half of her face in black. A gold streak parts the valley between her chestnut eyes, highlighting her crimson lips.
My breath catches in my throat as she steps out of her apartment and into the hall.
Her floor-length gown takes that red and paints her body in it. The barely there straps are bravely holding up a length of free-flowing velvet dotted in sequins, with a neckline so deep, magic tape has to be keeping it in place. Her dark hair is carefully plaited in a French braid and tied with a ribbon.
There’s no two ways about it—she’s phenomenal.
I take my time securing her mask, savoring the hitch in her breath as our chests touch.
It’s obvious there’s a craving in her that’s gone unfulfilled for too long. If tonight goes as planned, I’ll be able to show her exactly how well versed I’ve become in satisfying desire.
The way she waits, hands at her sides, while I stretch the moment out, is a good sign. “Thank you,” she says softly.
“My pleasure.”
As I pull back, I drag the tips of my fingers gently across her jaw. The soft sound of pleasure Ivy makes is only audible because we’re standing so close, and I can’t help but dip my gaze down to her lips.
“Did you know there is a history and meaning behind every mask?”
There’s a gentle shake of her head, and her eyes remain closed.
Not kissing her is torture, but I endure it. All the better for later.
“They were worn during festivals, which encouraged freedom and theatrics. It was a chance to become anyone you wished. It made for mischief.”
She licks her lips. Unadulterated want roars in my chest, filling the cavern there and reverberating like an echo. Christ, she’s so perfect it’s a physical ache.
“This,” I say, passing my thumb along her cheek where the mask sits, “is a Colombina, historically worn by women and inspired by early Italian theatre. Mine,” I say, referring to the white mask covering everything but my mouth and jaw, “is a play on the Bauta mask, and is rumored to be what Casanova wore.”
The curl of her smile is incredibly satisfying.
“Venice had some very interesting laws regarding masks,” I continue. “Including one which stated that by wearing a mask, you needed to become a mask, or more accurately, play the role. Something I believe you will be able to appreciate tonight.”
Ivy blinks her eyes open, clears her throat, and steps back, pulling her door closed with a soft click. “How do you know all of that?”
