The cold here feels different too, more urban and brisk compared to Phoenix’s dry heat or Maplewood’s gentle snowfall.
The neon signs of the club pulse ahead, their blue and purple glow bleeding into the night fog. The letters flicker and dance across the frosted windows, painting the waiting crowd in alternating waves of color. There must be fifty people in line, all dressed to the nines in their New Year’s Eve best, though most had the sense to wear coats over their party clothes.
I don’t slow down as I approach the entrance. The bouncer—a mountain of a man with a neat beard and kind eyes—looks up as I near.
I flash the VIP pass I scored through my position on the Maplewood Chamber of Commerce. Being a local business owner has its perks, especially when it comes to the network of discounts and special access we get at venues across northern Vermont.
“Happy New Year,” I say, holding up the pass. The bouncer nods, unhooking the velvet rope.
A chorus of protests rises from the line, but I keep my chin high as I slide past. The door handle is cold under my palm, and for a moment, I hesitate. Through the frosted glass, I see shadows moving, bodies pressing together in that universal language of desire and celebration. My heart thumps against my ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation.
The mask sits perfectly against my cheekbones as I move forward, each step deliberate and measured. My hips sway with natural confidence—the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you want. And tonight, what I want is simple. I want to lose myself in the arms of the only person who can make my body sing with pleasure and my heart flutter out of my chest.
The dancefloor throbs with bodies and bass, a living thing feeding on sweat and desire. Through the haze of artificial fog and strobing lights, I catch glimpses of bare skin and masked faces, everyone playing at being someone else tonight.
I weave through the crowd, letting the music guide my movements. The DJ is good, mixing deep house beats with vocals that speak directly to my blood. My fishnet-clad legs move on instinct, hips rolling to the rhythm as I find my spot in the press of bodies.
The mask makes everything feel different—more electric, more possible. Behind its protection, I can be anyone. The thought is intoxicating, or maybe that’s just the way the bass vibrates through my chest, making my heart sync to its persistent thrum.
That’s when I see him.
He’s wearing a black Venetian mask with silver filigree, the kind that makes you think of old-world nobility and secret affairs. His broad shoulders are wrapped in a fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. But it’s the way he moves that catches my attention—confident but controlled, like he knows exactly how good he looks but isn’t trying to prove it to anyone.
Our eyes meet across the dancefloor, and something clicks into place. He tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the connection, and I feel a smile spread across my face. The game is on.
I turn away, giving him my back, but I can feel his attention like a physical touch. The music shifts, something with a slower, dirtier beat, and I let my body respond. My arms lift above my head, fingers spread wide as I move my hips in a way that makes the most of these tiny shorts.
When I feel hands settle on my waist, I know they’re his. His touch is firm but not demanding, and he moves with me just like we’ve done a hundred times before. I lean back slightly, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my shoulders.
“Will I get a kiss at midnight?” His voice is low and rich in my ear, cutting through the music with practiced ease.
I turn in his arms, meeting his eyes through our masks. “Only if you buy me a drink.”
His laugh is genuine, and he steps back, offering his hand. I take it, letting him lead me through the crowd toward the bar. His fingers are warm against mine, and that simple touch sends sparks of anticipation racing up my arm.
The bar is three deep with people trying to get their last drinks of the year, but my mystery man seems to know exactly where to stand. A bartender spots us immediately, and two minutes later, we’re holding matching glasses of champagne.
“To new beginnings,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
“To masks,” I counter, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “And what happens when they come off.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners—he’s smiling behind his mask. We’re standing close enough that I can smell his familiar cologne, that woodsy scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
Around us, the crowd starts counting down. “Ten! Nine! Eight!”
He sets our glasses on the bar and steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, and I part them instinctively.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, but we both know I won’t. I want this kiss like I want air.
“Four! Three! Two!”
I grab his shirt front, pulling him down to meet me.
“ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
His lips find mine as cheers erupt around us, and oh, these lips. I know the way they press against mine, the slight roughness of stubble against my chin, the confident sweep of his tongue. My hands tighten in his shirt as familiar heat floods through me.
