We glide into a shadowed cul-de-sac of pillars. The violins swell, the chandeliers dim just enough that candle sconces take dominance, flickering over his chiseled cheekbones. The song’s final measures draw us closer, our breathing weaving into the strings.
When the last note quivers out, I wait for polite applause. Instead, silence cocoons us. I realize with a start we’re hidden behind a marble pillar, out of sight of the dancers.
His naughty grin, the velvet rasp of his words, the scent of storm and spirit—they curl around me like starlight pulled into a funnel cloud. I’m dizzy, wildly aware of every nerve ending. Somewhere distant, Emily’s phone probably buzzes with another adventure memo, but right now all I can catalog is the thud of his heartbeat under my palm and the echoing truth that I’ve never felt so vividly alive.
“So… let’s summarize the evening,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing the inside of my wrist like a secret. “One brave heart, cleverly hidden behind careful caution. One mind sparking like fireworks behind those wicked-smart eyes.”
He lifts my hand, presses it to his chest.
“And one pulse racing recklessly toward you.”
I can’t breathe. Heat rolls over me in shimmering waves. He angles closer, his intoxicating scent swirling around us. His mask tilts, revealing more of his jawline and the soft scrape of stubble. The world shrinks to our shared gravity.
His other hand is still on my waist—hot, deliberate, the fingers spread wider than propriety allows. My pulse scampers beneath his thumb.
For a heartbeat neither of us speaks. I hear the tremor of my own breathing, the crystalline clink of champagne somewhere far behind us, and—closer—his breath: low, steady, tinged with the dark sweetness of the drink he had and whatever woodsmoke cologne clings tohis lapel. It smells like a firelit library, like stories whispered at two a.m. until the pages go soft.
“Say something literary,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges. “Anything, just so I can watch the words leave your mouth.”
His shamelessness sparks heat beneath my skin, but it’s the need in his tone—sharp as a paper cut—that makes me dizzy. Words fail me for once. Instead I slide my gaze to his mouth: full lower lip, shadowed bow, the slightest dent where teeth worried it a moment ago. I imagine tasting the indentation, fitting it between my own lips, leaving a matching impression on him.
He sees the direction of my attention and exhales a broken laugh. “Bad for my ego, mystery woman.”
His eyes darken behind the mask. Slowly, giving me every chance to refuse, he lifts his hand and skims the back of his knuckles from the hinge of my jaw down along the side of my neck. My skin erupts in gooseflesh; sparks prickle behind my knees. The world narrows to the path of that single stroke and the hypnotic tick of the string quartet.
“We shouldn’t,” I whisper because it’s the last rational foothold I possess.
“God, I know.” His thumb locates the hollow at the base of my throat, a reverent press. “So let’s.”
And I, Nora Davidson—by-the-book librarian and nerdy introvert—am kissing a stranger at a masquerade.
2
MAX
The Man Behind the Mask
She’s not my usual type, that’s true. But maybe I’m done with the usual—find a beautiful woman, flirt, fuck, forget. Same game, different face.
This woman is different. She’s beautiful, razor-sharp, and if I’m reading her right, she doesn’t do this kind of thing often.
Best of all? She has no idea who I am. It feels liberating.
She rises to meet me, her breath brushing mine, and the second our mouths hover that dangerous inch apart, the whole room tilts. I feel her breath catch. See the stutter of her lashes. Hear nothing but the thrum of my pulse hammering against the inside of my mask.
And then—finally—she kisses me.
No,wekiss.
It’s tentative at first. Curious. A brush of mouths that feels more like a question than an answer. Her lips are softer than I imagined—and I’ve imagined them more than I should admit. I coax her closer with a tilt of my head, a gentle pressure at the seam of her mouth,and when she exhales a trembling sigh—half surrender, half spark—I take more.
Because fuck, I’ve wanted this.
Her taste hits me like a shot of heat straight to the spine. Sweet champagne, a whisper of citrus, and something wilder underneath—something that feels likeher. Like mischief laced with innocence. Like secrets waiting to be unlocked.
My hand slides up, fingers curving behind her skull, cradling her. I angle her just right, deepening the kiss, while my other arm pulls her flush against me. Satin clings to her skin. Heat blazes where we connect—chest to chest, hips to hips—and I feel her shiver as I take my time with her mouth.
I tease her lower lip with my tongue, and when she gasps—a raw, needy little sound that damn near undoes me—I answer with a groan that belongs in a much darker room. Her hand fists in my lapel, and I feel it like a brand—her claiming me, anchoring herself. She’s trembling, maybe, but she’sinto it. Into me.
