An Extravagant Tryst: A Prologue to One Exquisite Touch

by Blakely, Lauren

  Eyes are hard to see with masks on, so in many ways I’m handicapped.

  But that’s fine by me. I like it when the game is a little harder, when I have to think and act smart. To make choices that might backfire.

  As I regard the guests—this one, that one, perhaps another one—my gaze returning to the woman in the peacock mask, I know what it’s going to take for this dalliance to work the way I want it to. I’ll let Cole think he spotted her. He’ll dance with her first. Then I’ll cut in.

  The symphony plays out in my head, the music growing stronger, louder, suggesting how the evening might unfold.

  Because she’s the one.

  It’s as clear as night.

  She didn’t know it before she left her home, but she was destined to meet us tonight.

  The woman in the black corset with a diamond necklace wrapped lovingly around her neck—Could there be any more of a sign that she’d adore long, lingering kisses on that supple neck?—is most definitely the one for us.

  As we drink champagne and survey the dance floor, I say nothing to Cole to indicate I’ve found her. I simply let my gaze occasionally drift her way. Part of my plan to let him think he saw her first. Eventually, as Cole and I chat about everything and nothing, which is what we usually do, he keys in on her too.

  Perfect.

  It’s like leading a horse to water, as he says, “I believe it’s time to ask someone for a dance.”

  He sets down his champagne.

  I take a drink of mine. “Best of luck to you, mate.”

  He raises an eyebrow above his black mask. “You think I need luck?”

  “We all need luck. We all need luck every second of every day. Never underestimate the value of luck.”

  He shoots me a doubtful grin, then heads over to the woman.

  We both believe in hard work, but Cole doesn’t know what it’s like to have luck stolen from you. As I finish off my champagne, my eyes drift briefly to the long, jagged scar that runs between the first two knuckles on my right hand, all the way down to my wrist.

  Luck is everything.

  In this city, hell, in all the cities all around the world, you have to make luck work for you. Tonight, I let my best friend and business partner think he’s making the first move. It doesn’t hurt anyone for him to believe that.

  For a few minutes, I soak in the sights of the party, the bodies moving and swaying, the heat rising in the room, the way women and men collide into each other. Hands slide down waists, up backs, into hair.

  This party is so much more than a masquerade.

  Or maybe that’s exactly what it is—a mask.

  A mask for more.

  How many others are here to kiss, to touch, to play?

  To grind, to fuck, to come?

  From the look of the dance floor, the answer is plenty.

  This is not a party for the chaste.

  It’s a party for the debauched.

  Feeling like I belong, my eyes settle on the woman in Cole’s arms. Her radiant grin. Her pretty mouth. Her hair I want to pull, breasts I want to explore, arse I’d love to smack.

  Provided she gives as good as she gets.

  And by give, I mean with her mouth. With words. With the things she says.

  Looks only go so far.

  Wit is what turns me on sky-high.

  So does opportunity, and tonight I plan to engineer it the way I want it to unfold.

  Once they’ve danced for long enough, it’s my turn. I stride across the room, purposeful, determined. I tap on her shoulder and flash a smile, the only part of me that’s fully visible from behind this Phantom mask. In my most dashing voice, I ask, “May I have this dance?”

  Playing the part of the gentleman, Cole steps away and offers her to me.

  My eyes stay on her. She’s hard to read behind that mask. The mesh covers her eyes, and I can barely tell what color they are. But still, even behind the mesh, a hint of color shines through. Like a clear sky. I can see more in those eyes too. A gleam of mischief. A spark of desire.

  “Yes, you may,” she says.

  I take her hand and close the distance, but not completely. One should always leave a little something to a woman’s imagination. Dancing ought to stimulate desire, suggest entanglements. I leave a few inches between us, the air already crackling and charged. She swallows, her throat moving, a flush darkening her décolletage.

  Perfect.

  She’s already in the mood to play. Cole moves behind her, pausing briefly at her back. Perhaps pressing against her. Giving her a taste of what she might have.

  Something that I would very much enjoy having with her. My favorite indulgence.

  But first, let’s see if she’s as captivating as I believe.

  Cole moves away, off the dance floor and out of sight. And now it’s just this lovely woman and me. “I was watching you dance earlier,” I tell her, not mincing words, not wasting time.

  Her lips curve in a tiny grin. “Did you like what you saw?”

  She lifts her chin, her pretty pink lips tilted up toward me, parted the slightest bit, almost like she’s waiting for a kiss. Yet her lips also contain the slightest hint of a question. She’s not ready to kiss yet, and that’s even more alluring.

  “I was admiring your dancing. You’re quite good at spinning around the dance floor,” I say in a teasing tone.

  “Does that mean you’ve had your eye on me all night?”

  I nod, owning it. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  With a coy grin, she asks, “Should it bother me?”

  I shake my head. “The opposite. I hope it arouses you.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Oh yes, I believe I chose well. She has so much fire in her. Just the way I like it.

  The way we like it.

  “I would like to know,” I retort, inching a little closer. “Because I was drawn to you immediately.”

  Even from behind the mask, I can tell she rolls her eyes, and that was my intention—to wind her up.

  “Is that a line?”

  “Do you think it’s a line?”

  “It seems like it might be one.”

  “It would only be a line if I said something cliché like I can’t take my eyes off you,” I say, dragging out the words, making them exaggerated, as if I’m some sort of pickup artist. “Or if I said, I can’t see anyone else in the room but you.”

  She tilts her head, perhaps a little perplexed. “Are you saying neither of those are true?”

  “What I’m saying is those are rubbish reasons to tell a woman you’ve had your eye on her all night,” I say, as I slide my hand down her back toward the curve of her arse. The music pulses around us, thrumming over us, behind us, through us.

  “Then what’s a non-rubbish reason?” she asks, a little breathy, a lot intrigued.

  I spin her around then drag her close, her stomach against mine, but still the slightest bit of distance between her breasts and my chest. My hand travels the other direction now, going north, my fingertips spreading across the fabric of her corset. She shivers as my hands play along her back. “I’ve had my eye on you all night because you’re the most interesting woman in the room.”

  She shivers against me, a full-body tremble that seems to start in her collarbone and radiate down her chest. I can feel her shuddering against me. My God, she’s like an instrument, and she’ll be gorgeous to play.

  She’s a cello, and I want to feel her against me, under me, around me.

  “And what makes me so interesting to you?”

  Lifting a hand, I touch the feathers. “For starters, this mask. It says you’re bold and outgoing.”

  “Does it now?”

  “It does, and you are,” I whisper.

  “I am,” she answers, as if a little mesmerized.

  I trace the stones around her neck. “This necklace tells me you love beautiful things, but you also like to be that beautiful thing. To have people look at you.”


  She takes a beat, her breath ghosting over her lips, then she whispers, “Yes.”

  I return to the starting point—the back of her dress. “And then there’s this corset. I find your choice to wear it fascinating.”

  She swallows. “Why?”

  “Because you have to know it’s captivating.”

  She seems to recover her composure, to remember how to flirt again, because she says, “Do you have a thing for fashion?”

  I shake my head, laughing, as I trace the ties along her corset. “These ties—they make me think about what I want to do with them.”

  “Tie me up?” she offers in a feathery voice, one that perhaps reveals her own interest in that prospect.

  “I would love to tie you up. But I was actually thinking about what I want to do to them with my teeth.”

  The expression in her face shifts from heat to rabid curiosity.

  Another rough swallow comes from her, then she says, “What do you want to do to them with your teeth?”

  I move in closer, my lips near her ear as I whisper, “Untie them one by one, then nip your back, lick your spine, and drag my mouth along that gorgeous neck of yours. Devouring you.”

  She sways, nearly falling against my chest. “I would like that,” she says in a whisper. Then she glances around, as if she’s just remembered where she is. “But what about your friend?”

  I arch a brow. “How do you know he’s my friend?”

  “Because the two of you were staring at me at the same time.”

  I can’t contain a grin. She’s onto us, and I fucking love it. “So you think we know each other?”

  “I think you do. I think you like doing many things together.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, and I enjoyed dancing with him too,” she says, tightening her hands on my shoulder, her pink lips turning pouty. “And perhaps I don’t want to have to choose between the two of you.”

  I finger the strands of her hair, so soft, so silky. “Love, whoever said you had to choose?”

  With that, I offer her a hand. She takes it, clasping her fingers against mine. I tip my forehead toward the hallway at the end of the ballroom and guide her away from the dance floor, around the corner, and down a quiet alcove, where I find my longtime friend and business partner.

  Cole leans casually against the wall. He’s holding a small black book, one he looks up from as we approach.

  The woman blinks at him. “Is that a little black book?”

  He gives her the wryest of wry grins, brandishing the small leather-bound book. “Maybe it is. Should I put your number in it?”

  “That depends on whether you’re going to want to see me again.”

  “Do you want me to see you?”

  “I’m not really thinking about the next time. I’m thinking about the fact that I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. And I’m wondering what’s going to happen in this alcove in the next fourteen minutes and fifty-five seconds.”

  Cole grins. Even from behind his mask, there’s heat in his eyes. She’s everything he wants. “It’s F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of my favorite writers.” He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then stalks over to her and raises a hand.

  He cups her cheek.

  She gasps.

  I run my palm along the ties of her corset. What would it be like to undo them one by one? To watch them fall open, to run my mouth along her back? Would she like that?

  I decide to find out. Standing behind her, I gently brush her hair away from her neck. Then I whisper, “Would you like me to kiss your neck?”

  As if we’ve done this before, as if we know exactly how this will work, Cole closes the rest of the distance between himself and our lady, his lips dangerously close to hers as he whispers, “And I’d love to kiss your lips.”

  Her voice is a barren plea. “Yes. Please. Both.”

  Her whole body is wracked with a gorgeous shudder that tells me this time with her is going to be electric.

  Even with only fifteen minutes, it’s going to be intense and delicious.

  And the thing is, I know something Cole doesn’t.

  I’m throwing this bet.

  5

  Cole

  Kissing with a mask on isn’t easy.

  Lots of things in life aren’t easy though. And you do them anyway, because they’re worth it.

  This tryst will be worth it. I’m certain of it. So, in the grand scheme of things, a couple of masks are hardly a roadblock.

  Not at all.

  Not when we have this beautiful, sensual, interested woman here between us.

  Her curiosity—that’s what interests me most of all, that’s what intrigues me. It’s been evident since she joined me here in this alcove, evident in the way she walked over, how she lifted her chin, how she said yes to us.

  I want to reward all of her curiosity, to let her know exactly why it’s worth having us both.

  Together.

  There is barely a breath of distance between this woman and my business partner . . . between this woman and me.

  And after the long, endless week filled with meetings, phone calls, emails, contracts, deals, and negotiations, I don’t just want this.

  I need this.

  Whatever this will be.

  Whatever this is becoming.

  Whatever she’ll have.

  Once upon a time, moments like this were pure fun, delicious decadence. Then they became the antidote to my dealmaking days. Now, they’re something more too. The promise of a pleasure-filled night has become a need.

  A part of me. Something I crave now and then. Something I must have every so often.

  It’s the high, the hit, the reward.

  I inch even closer to her so that soon, soon I can kiss her.

  But not yet. Not yet at all.

  I take all the time in the world even though we barely have time.

  Because I know how much more she’ll want my lips if I do this first. I spread my right hand across her waist, over the satin fabric of her corset. She shivers from that one touch.

  From only one exquisite touch.

  “You like it when we touch you,” I rasp out.

  “I think I do,” she whispers as my left hand travels south, toying with the hem of her skirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daniel spreading his hands over her ass. Squeezing her.

  “You think, lovely bird?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’m sure now. I’m so sure.” She arches forward, her back bowing, words falling from her lips so gorgeously with a gasp. “What are you doing to me?” she whispers as she lowers her face, exposing more of the gorgeous real estate of the back of her neck.

  He answers the call, dropping his mouth there.

  “Why only be kissed by one man when you can be kissed by two?” I whisper, and she shudders.

  “Yes, why?” she asks, all breathy and needy.

  That’s why we do this. Because we know what this kind of attention can do to a woman when done right.

  Because we know what kind of earth-shattering, mind-blowing pleasure we can bring to a gorgeous, curious woman who maybe, possibly, has never been kissed like this.

  That’s what’s so thrilling about our game—it’s not the money.

  Fuck the money.

  It’s the possibility of what she might feel as we take her to new heights, make her soar in brand-new ways from double the pleasure, two times the bliss.

  As my best friend trails his mouth along the back of her neck, I lower my face to her chest, dropping kisses along the exposed skin above those luscious breasts. I dust my lips along her sweet flesh, savoring that first honey taste of her as it swirls in my nose, goes to my head, makes my cock pound.

  But tonight isn’t about my cock at all.

  This is about the chance to bring incandescent pleasure to a woman who appears to covet it.

  That is my greatest turn-on. To make a woman go wild, to make her pant, moan, and scream. To make her knees weak, her heart hammer
, and her panties so damn damp that they’re utterly useless.

  And then, to multiply her lust. Because bliss can be better when there are two men giving it to one woman.

  When she can feel us everywhere.

  I roam my lips over the delicious skin of her chest, kissing along her sternum, moving up to the hollow of her throat. I lick her there as Daniel’s hands rope in her blonde strands, as he brushes kisses along the edge of her shoulders. She gasps and sighs. Shivers too.

  We are both adoring her with our lips and hands and bodies.

  That’s what I want—for her to feel worshipped. Like a queen of her own pleasure.

  I kiss her neck with that goal in mind—to make her writhe, to make her moan. She gasps and pants, and I haven’t even reached her lips yet. I journey up her neck to her chin, kissing her there, sucking.

  Then I break that kiss, cup her jaw, and slide my thumb along her face. Daniel bends lower, kissing the back of her neck as her lips part in an oh. She grinds against me, sounds falling from her mouth that are so damn dangerous and delicious. I want to swallow them down, drink them up, devour them.

  I can’t wait any longer. Closing my eyes, I drop my lips to hers, and I savor the taste of her kiss.

  The second I touch her, she shudders, a sigh falling between our lips, a sigh that tells me she’ll be coming from my hand very soon.

  I’ll win the bet.

  But I’ve already won it, for all intents and purposes.

  We already know who’s leading, only I don’t actually care about the bet. I’d lose that money double times over for another taste of her.

  I have plenty of green. This game is never about the money. It’s about the chase, the thrill, the high of bringing this type of bliss to a woman, often for the first time. Of introducing something to her that she may never have experienced before but that might make her lose her mind with lust. And I’ve become addicted to making the woman I’m with come, come hard, then come harder than she ever has before, whatever it takes. Pleasure is the cure. Pleasure is always the goal.

  I slide my hand lower along her skirt, cupping her through her clothes, letting her know where I’m headed. The catch in her breath tells me she wants me there, wants me to keep going.