I look up, my fingers still moving, slow and deliberate. “I’m going to make you come. What does it look like?”
She bites her lip, her eyes fluttering closed. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breasts pressing against me. “This is… this is crazy. You can’t.”
I huff a laugh and press a kiss to her collarbone, my fingers circling her clit. “We’ll see about that.”
She doesn’t answer, her body speaking for her. She’s pressing into my hand, her hips moving restlessly, seeking more friction. I smirk, my fingers speeding up, my thumb rubbing her clit in firm circles. The sound of her wetness against my touch is obscene, a slick rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.
“Matt,” she whimpers, voice cracking. “You’re driving me insane.”
“My pleasure,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. My breath fans across her skin, and a shiver ripples through her.
“This pressure okay?”
A soft, wordless groan is her only answer—then a breathless nod that tells me everything I need to know.
Her body tightens, her muscles coiling like a spring. And then she’s falling apart, her walls clenching around my fingers, her breath hitching on a sharp cry. Her head falls forward, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and I hold her through it, my other hand gripping her hip, keeping her steady as she rides out her orgasm. The sound of her release is music to my ears, a mix of moans and whimpers that make my dick throb painfully.
When she finally goes limp, I pull her against me, my lips brushing her hair. She’s shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body is warm and pliant in my arms, and I can feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest. “That was…” she starts, her voice weak.
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice hoarse. “It was.”
She lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine. There’s something in them—something soft, something vulnerable. It makes my chest ache in a way I can’t explain. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her gaze drifts downward, cataloguing me the way she might study the spine of a rare book. It lingers at the stretched neckline of my T-shirt—right where the fabric sagged when her hands slid underneath. Slowly, almost absently, she reaches up and tugs the collar a little farther aside.
Her breath catches. So does mine.
The stylized storm-cloud coiled around a musical note is fully exposed now, black ink stark against my skin. Her fingertips hover, not quite touching. Recognition ripples across her face—confusion first, then dawning memory, then something sharper I can’t yet name.
“This…” Her voice is a whisper swallowed by the stalled elevator. “I’ve seen this before.” She doesn’t sayat the masquerade,but the words hang between us all the same.
Every instinct screams to cover the mark, to spin another easy lie. Instead I stay still, letting her search the lines of ink like a map that might lead her back to me. Her touch finally lands, feather-light, and a shiver arrows straight down my spine.
Her features go from confusion to shock, from shock to something darker. The warmth in her gaze ices over.
“You—” She jerks her hand away as if burned. “That tattoo… you’re him. The masked-ball guy.”
5
NORA
Storm-Tattoo Guy
The lights snap on without warning, bleaching the elevator in harsh fluorescence. A shriek of grinding steel follows, and the cab lurches upward with a hiss of restored hydraulics. I jerk upright on the safety rail—every nerve raw—while Matt scrambles for his hoodie, jaw still slack from the kiss that seconds ago felt like the safest, most reckless place in the universe.
The intercom crackles. “Maintenance. Car B-Six, you’re free—doors opening on Eight.” A click, then silence.
My heartbeat slams into fast-forward. Had anyone heard us? Seen us? My skirt is hitched indecently high, Matt’s T-shirt is bunched halfway up a torso I no longer care to memorize, and my hair must be a mess. The cab halts with a jolt; doors screech apart.
On the landing stands an elderly janitor in a faded Mets cap, mop in hand, eyebrows climbing to his hairline. He takes in our appearance, and my flaming cheeks.
“Uh… everything okay in here?”
“Fine,” I croak—too shrill, too quick. I smooth down my hair, adjust my cardigan, and grab the clipboards as a nonsensical shield. My entire body vibrates between humiliation and aching fury. No way am I explaining anything to a stranger with a mop.
Matt reaches out. “Nora—”
I step around his hand, gather my clipboards, and bolt past the janitor before Matt can string another syllable together. Anger flares hot, fusing with shame.
