Masked parties have always been a favorite of mine. It’s one thing to get fucked by a groupie who already knows your name. But here… I get to be anyone I want—get to imagine anyone I want. It’s a contract. A vow of anonymity.
The secrets arouse every inch of me.
I lose Zeb the moment we enter through the gates. He’s probably found himself a little bunny to chase by now—if they’re into that sort of thing. And I… I already have my sights set on a tall beauty by the bar wearing an all-black bodysuit that covers every inch of her curving body. Her arms, legs, even her face. Light reflects off the pyramid studs and sequins decorating the entire suit, nearly making her disappear in the shadows when she stalks between people, seemingly hopping from bar to bar.
I wonder how the hell she’s seeing out of it; however, when a stray light passes over her face, the light disappears at two shadowed, blank areas where her eyes would be—the sharp texture absent.
An added black, lower-face mask sits over her mouth, the neon pink glow around its edges keeping it from vanishing in the shadows.
Her mouth…
I’m itching to know why she’s wearing the added mask… whether it’s for a voice changer and added secrecy or simply for the look.
Because it lookshot.
The bright red wig she’s wearing atop the suit is the only thing that makes her stand out and not completely vanish in the dark. Half of the hair is down, the other half pulled up into two buns atop her head.
I love that fucking hairstyle.
I’ve been tracking her for nearly an hour now from the dance floor—except for the one song when I slipped off to follow her through the crowd. I had to make sure she wasn’t here with someone, needed to know if I’d be barging in on someone else’s property once I made my move…
She never once peered back at me, never once stopped to watch anyone else or even chat with friends.
I wonder if she’s here alone.
Sweat feels like it’s pouring from every crevice of my body, especially my head. God, this fucking wig is hot. I wish I could toss it on the floor and forget about it. Still, I know I can’t. My hair would tell everyone who I am, and the whole incognito game would be over.
And that wouldn’t be any fun.
I need to get her attention already.
There are enough bar setups that the line at the one she’s perched on a stool at is nonexistent. No drink sits in her gloved hands or on the bar next to her. Her legs are crossed over one another and pointing to the right of me, head turned in that same direction.
I’m curious who she’s watching. If she has her gaze as fixed on them as mine is on her.
I keep an eye on her as I stealthily move through the throngs of dancers, going out of my way to the left so that I’m forced into her sightline.
I don’t want her to have the chance to miss me.
I don’t give up that easily.
Look at me.
Her head moves a fraction, and I think…yes.
She sees me.
She sits up a little straighter, uncrosses and crosses her other leg over, and I feel the pull in her direction. Which of us is the moth and the flame, I can’t tell. It’s a gravitational pull, and even when I reach the bar, I barely look at the bartender when they ask, “What can I get you?”
“Water, thanks,” I answer.
Three people stand between the two of us. Three people who I don’t mind being there. Because the longer she’s watching me, the longer this tension remains alive, and the less restraint I’m going to have later.
The bartender slides my water across the table top.
I wrap my lips around the straw and stare at her though the link chains over my eyes, my elbow leaning on the counter. Purple, blue, and pink lights strobe over her suit, the lights catching in those sequins and triangular studs. I can’t look away or see anything in my peripherals other than her. A fight could break out beside me, and I’d ignore it.
And when the three people between us head into the crowd again, we’re locked in a trance, a battle for which of us will look away or make the first move.
