The gala is thinning out. I heard Charles and Sienna slip away ten minutes ago, Evelyn and Aria another five. Parker and Ryan are on their way. Sixty seconds—maybe less—to make this happen.
Soft footsteps approach—Parker’s elegant rhythm, unmistakable on the polished floor—and Ryan’s low murmur about fetching her coat. His steps recede, leaving only Parker’s solitary echo and the faint hiss of her dress when she reaches for the handle. Perfect.
I ease the closet door open, heart hammering. The light from the hallway slices beneath the door, a slender dagger of brightness against the gloom. I reach in, draw her inside.
“How—”
Her breath catches, cut off as I close the door. Darkness encloses us, broken only by that narrow line of light at our feet. I press her against the coats, fingers curling into silk and wool until the fibers crease beneath my grip.
“Silas—” she breathes, but I crush the sound with my mouth. My lips find hers—urgent, deep, claiming. My hand threads through her hair, the silk warm and smooth beneath my palm, and I crush her closer, the wall of coats at her back pressing in like conspirators. She melts instantly, her resistance dissolving as her fingers knot in my shoulders.
She smells like champagne effervescence, jasmine petals at dawn, and something indefinably hers—tender, heady, impossible to shake. The storm-grey silk of her gown glides beneath my touch, its cool sheen contrasting with the blaze I feel against my skin. Every inch of her molds to me—soft curves meeting hard muscle, the rise of her breasts beneath the fabric, the hollow of her throat at my fingertip.
My body responds in kind—blood rushing, heat pooling, the hard line of need pressing against her hip through layers of silk and lace. Every instinct demands I lift her, sweep her against this wall of furs, pull her skirts taut, and claim her fully. To make her world narrow to nothing but us.
She quivers, her hips tilting into mine with a silent plea, nails biting into the silk of my lapels. A hushed moan escapes her, raw and needy, like wind through a broken window. I drop to my knees.
Her gasp vibrates through me when my fingers hitch the hem of her gown, sliding silk upward, exposing pale skin that shiversunder my touch. The world narrows to the heat gleaming between her thighs, a slick promise.
I don’t linger. My mouth descends, sealing over her swollen clit, tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns. Parker’s breath catches in her throat, her body arching, pressing harder into me. Fur and wool brush against us, a muted witness.
“Silas—oh God?—”
Her cry flickers in the dark. I drink it in, surrender to the taste of her—salted sweetness mingled with champagne fizz—and I suck her gently, then fiercely, until her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.
I slip two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clench and pulse around me. She buckles, hips thrusting in a desperate rhythm, a silent drumbeat that sets my own heart racing. I curl my fingers, find that spot I know from every stolen moment.
“Don’t stop,” she rasps, voice trembling.
Like I’d be so cruel?
My tongue and fingers move in perfect tandem—steady pressure, precise strokes—until her muscles flutter, her breath shatters, and her body quakes in a fierce, jagged crescendo. Her cry echoes against the coats, muffled only by the fabric barrier.
She collapses against me, weight suddenly gone, and I hold her through the tremors, lips trailing kisses along the inner curve of her thigh, tasting the last tremor of her release.
When I rise, her skirt clings to damp skin, her hair loose around her face, cheeks still flushed. She leans up, claiming my mouth with bruising hunger, tongue brushing my lips. The mingled taste of champagne, jasmine, and Parker—sweet, dangerous—sets something wild inside me. I press my palm to her back, savoring the feather-soft wool.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps. She fumbles with my jacket, as if she could tear every barrier away. I want to let her, want to bury myself in her until she forgets everything but this. But I wrench my mouth free, disentangling myself.
Her lower lip trembles. “You’re cheating,” she whispers—voice thick with want and accusation.
I trap her wrist against the coats, fingers snaking to the nape of her neck. She shivers under my grip, her pupils darkening, breath stuttering. She loves this hold. Craves it.
“I need something from you,” I murmur in her ear, voice low, intimate. Her hips press back again, instinctive.
I fish in my pocket for the real prize: a micro-tracker no larger than a button, and a pin-sized bug. Cal’s handiwork. I slip them into her hand.
“Plant these on Ryan,” I whisper, grazing her lower lip with my thumb. “In his coat pocket, his belt loop, wherever. Make sure they stay hidden.”
Heat rushes through her—anger, desire, the sharp sting of betrayal.
“You’re using me?” she breathes.
“I could do it myself,” I admit, voice steady, my other hand settling possessively on her hip. “But I like when you’re my good girl.”
Her breath flutters. Her eyes soften, acceptance blooming like a dark flower. I bend, capture her mouth in a final kiss—tender,punishing, everything I can’t say. Her nails dig into my lapels as she melts against me.
When I pull away, she actually whimpers. My chest aches.
