Something warm unfurls in my chest, a strange mixture of fear and flattery and desire.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell Mia and Valerie, finally turning to face them. “He can’t murder me here. Too many witnesses.”
“That’s not fucking funny,” Mia hisses, but I can see the curiosity in her eyes, too. The part of her that wants to see how this plays out.
“Go,” Valerie says finally, surprising me. “But we’re checking on you in twenty minutes. And remember—”
“Fluffy,” I mouth to her, our code word. “I know. I’ll be fine.”
I turn back to him, taking a deep breath. “Lead the way.”
He offers his arm, a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture from someone who’s been watching me through windows for months. I take it, feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit jacket. We climb the stairs together, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back as he guides me toward a door at the end of a dimly lit hallway.
The VIP room is smaller than I expected, just a black couch positioned along the back wall facing the door. The music is still audible but muted enough that we can hear each other without shouting. Through a large window, we can see the dance floor below, a swirling mass of bodies and lights.
“Your friends are protective,” he says, closing the door but not locking it. “That’s good. You should have people looking out for you.”
“Are you?” I ask, remaining standing even as he gestures for me to sit. “Looking out for me?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “In my way, yes.”
“Most people would call what you’re doing stalking, not protection.”
“Most people aren’t married to Eli Fischer.”
The sound of my husband’s name from his lips makes me flinch. “How do you know about Eli?”
“I know a lot of things about Eli,” he says, his voice hardening slightly. “Things you should know, too.”
I cross my arms, suddenly feeling vulnerable despite the crowded club just beyond the door. “Like what?”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small envelope. “Like the fact that he’s been cheating on you. Regularly. With paid companions.”
I stare at the envelope full of photographs and receipts, but don’t take it. “Prostitutes,” I say flatly. It’s not a question, I’ve suspected for a while now.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I’ve been watching him too,” he admits. “Following his movements when he leaves you alone in that house.”
I should be horrified by this, by all of this. But all I feel is a strange sense of validation. Someone has been paying attention. Someone has been seeing what I’ve been afraid to look at directly.
“Why?” I ask, the question that’s been burning in me since that day in the bookstore. “Why me? Why all of this?”
He takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something lightly floral, cedar and linen. “Because from the moment I saw you, I knew you deserved better. Because something in me recognized something in you.”
It sounds insane. It probably is insane. But standing here, in this small room with the man who’s been haunting my thoughts for months, it feels like the most honest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Fuck it,” I whisper, and then I’m moving toward him, closing the distance between us.
I pull him down to my level by the lapels of his jacket and kiss him, hard. He makes a surprised sound against my mouth before his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his body. The hard edges of his mask press into my skin, but I don’t care. All I care about is the heat of his mouth, the taste of him, butterscotch bourbon and something woodsy, rugged.
When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes behind the mask are dark with desire.
“I want this,” I tell him, surprising myself with my boldness. “But no penetration. Not until I’m divorced.”
He nods, his hands sliding down to my hips. “Whatever you want. However you want it.”
