The side gallery closes around us in a hush. Light dims to a moody half-glow, and sconces cast long shadows across the marble tiles. The air carries the scent of lacquered wood, aging varnish, and the quiet arrogance of old wealth.
Rare paintings. Gilt frames. Velvet ropes guarding history.
I pull the door shut without turning, my hand still wrapped around hers. The sound clicks softly and final. The gala beyond becomes a muted thrum, just a pulse beneath the floorboards, distant enough to make the quiet in here illicit.
She pivots toward me, breath unsteady. “Bastien.”
Hearing her say my name that way cuts deep. She’s undoing me without so much as touching the mask.
I guide her backward with a slow step, the kind that leaves her no doubt about intention. She meets the paneled wall with a subtle intake of breath. My hand braces beside her head. The other finds the line of her waist and draws her toward me.
The masks stay on, and the distance between us disappears.
She releases a shaky half-laugh. “Everyone I know is in this building—friends, family, coworkers.”
“Your ex,” I add, stepping closer until her body aligns with mine.
Her breath catches. “Are you jealous?”
I dip my head, the carved grin of the mask tilting inches from her cheek. “Would it be true obsession if I wasn’t?”
Her fingers flex at her sides, a reflex she can’t hide. “There’s nothing between us.”
“I know. I’ve watched.”
She freezes with the sudden awareness of what that means—how long I’ve been orbiting her, how closely, how deliberately.
My hand slides to the small of her back and draws her against me. Not rough. Not hurried. Just a deliberate pull that tells her how I want her.
She doesn’t resist. Not even a breath.
Her hands rest against my chest, trembling, on the brink of sin.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “You know what turns me on the most?”
“Tell me.”
My breath drags down her neck, hot and filthy. “That your ex is in this building wondering where you are right now.”
She stiffens.
“Jon David Bellamy.” His name is venom on my tongue. “I bet he’s sipping champagne, looking around the room, trying to figure out where you went, who you’re with, and what you’re doing.”
A flicker runs through her.
“Wouldn’t it be something if he walked in right now? Tables turned. You, trembling against the wall, getting fucked while he watches.”
Her breath hitches, and her chest presses flush against mine.
“He’d take one look at you and know—” I lean in, voice dark. “You’re mine now. Not his.”
She whimpers, low and broken. Half moan, half surrender.
I pull back enough to study her. “Tell me the truth. Is your pussy wet for me right now?”
“Dripping wet,” she says, voice soft and wrecked.
Fuck. That’s all I need.
