“We’ll see where the night goes,” I say, even though I’m really hoping it doesn’t lead to anything that doesn’t involve me. Not that I want it to lead to anything with me. That’s not something I should be thinking about. I’m not thinking about that. I’m not.
We stand there for a little while, staring at the masks in the box. This is okay, right? We’re finding a new normal. Growing. Being mature.
I kind of hate it.
“One more problem,” Will says. “What are we going to wear?”
A slow grin spreads over my lips. “Sounds like we’re going shopping.”
THIRTEEN
WILL
When you think about it, it’s kind of funny that there’s a strict dress code at these types of things, considering most people there will end up butt naked by the end of the night. But dressing up has always been part of the fun. It sets a tone. Allows you to slip into another frame of mind, like a performance. Builds the anticipation.
Ari drags me around New York City to every boutique and tailor he knows until we find the perfect outfits. We spend most of the afternoon drinking champagne while being measured and pinned and smoothed over by people who cost more per hour than I used to make in a week.
I can’t deny it’s fun. And Ari gets a thrill out of reciting lines fromPretty Womanand calling me Edward.
It’s the most fun we’ve had in a long time.
We choose suits that are meant to match without being identical. Black with black satin detailing that catches the light, and off-white satin shirts. We both decide to forego bow ties in favor of leaving a few buttons open. It is a sex party, after all.
My suit is structured. Double-breasted, and broad shouldered with clean lines.
Ari’s is… not.
When he steps out of his room, my brain stutters. My mouth goes dry.
The shirt Ari chose is halter-cut, the front modest enough to pass for formal with the jacket on. But without it, his arms and back are completely bare—smooth skin exposed from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. It’s draped over his body like it was made for him, meant to draw the eye to every perfect inch of him.
I can think again when he puts the jacket on, although he still looks good enough to make me want to weep. The suit jacket fits him perfectly, slim-cut and tailored to his narrow waist and long lines.
I don’t even realize I’ve been frozen, open-mouthed and in awe, until he turns, catches me staring, and lifts an eyebrow.
“What?” he asks, reaching for the satin eye mask that was delivered with the ornate keys that are our tickets to enter the venue.
“I—” I swallow hard. “Nothing.”
It’s a terrible lie, but he lets it go.
My eyes track his every movement as he ties the mask, his fingers deft and practiced, nails painted a shiny black that matches the detailing on our suits. When he looks at himself in the mirror, there’s a confidence there that I know isn’t always so easy for him. Or it wasn’t. It looks good on him.
God, he’s beautiful.
The drive over is quiet. It’s not tense exactly, but careful. Like we’re both aware that we’re playing with fire. That tonight is something fragile, something we could easily mishandle if we slip into old patterns.
And by we, I mean me.
The limo pulls up to the curb outside the venue. I step out first and instinctively offer my elbow to Ari as he exits the vehicle.
He hesitates for a moment before accepting it, wrapping his arm around mine. The contact is light, polite even. It still sends a jolt straight through me.
“Are you going to behave?” he asks under his breath as the doors open and the sound of music spills out into the night.
I huff a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m going to try.”
“That didn’t sound convincing.”
