by Jenna Sutton
To be honest, my hatred doesn’t have anything to do with Zac. He actually seems like a pretty decent guy. No, my hatred is all about Cassie. I hate that Zac has the right to touch her. I hate that he’s the one she wants.
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m sure Cassie and Zac the Dickhead are snug in their mid-priced chain hotel room. They’re probably already in bed ... probably fucking.
An image of Cassie, naked on snowy-white sheets with her legs spread wide, flashes though my mind. Oh, the things I’d do to her if she were mine ... if she were in my bed.
I’ve been fantasizing about getting her naked since the day I met her, and after a year of wanting and not having, my fantasies have moved beyond languid lovemaking to filthy fucking. But it’s clear to me now that I’m never going to have Cassie, not the way I really want her.
I would give almost anything to trade places with Zac. I’m tormented by the thought of what he’s doing with Cassie right this moment. Kissing her sweet lips? Touching her luscious tits? Sucking on her hard clit? Pushing inside her wet cunt?
Lust and rage and jealousy swirl in my head and corrode my insides like fluoroantimonic acid, the world’s strongest superacid. (I know this because I just read an article about it. Quite interesting.)
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this crazy, and certainly never about a woman. The few times I’ve edged this far out of control, I’ve done something monumentally stupid, like the time I broke into a Ferrari dealership with a couple of friends and took a 488 Spider on a joyride through downtown Circo.
Or the time I visited an exclusive strip club in Abu Dhabi and ended up naked, swinging on a chrome pole beside a stripper named Sapphire.
Or the time I woke up in the penthouse suite of a Macao casino after a night of partying and found myself surrounded by people taking turns snorting cocaine off my cock, like a homemade porn.
Like I said, monumentally stupid.
Those escapades happened in my early twenties. I’m almost thirty now, and I don’t do stupid shit like that anymore. But it’s true what they say—history has a long memory. No one will ever forget my past indiscretions. I’ll always be a royal fuckup, the Playboy Prince.
I should call it a night, go upstairs to my suite, and drink enough vodka to drown any lewd thoughts of Cassie Lulach. That’s what I should do.
Instead, I strip off my black tuxedo jacket and toss it onto a chair tucked into a corner. I consider removing my mask too—a white wolf face that covers everything except my mouth and chin—but decide against it. I don’t want to talk to anyone who wants to talk to Prince Marco of Alsania.
I had to replace my jester’s mask when one of the ribbons snapped just a few minutes after the ball began. At least the wolf mask is unique. I saw at least ten other guys wearing some iteration of a jester’s mask.
I stroll through the French doors and onto the balcony. The exterior lights are on but dimmed so the star-studded night sky can be appreciated.
A few people are scattered here and there, laughing and chatting with champagne flutes in their hands. Not wanting to be drawn into conversation, I move across the balcony and hurry down the stairs.
When I reach the bottom of the staircase, I stop for a moment and take a deep breath. A light breeze drifts over me, bringing the scent of freshly cut grass and lilacs from the garden.
Feeling calmer, I meander down a gravel path bordered by glowing landscape fixtures. I don’t have a destination in mind, but maybe if I keep moving, I’ll stop thinking about Cassie.
I never thought I’d be in this position—wanting a woman who has zero interest in me beyond friendship. From the time my voice started to change, members of both sexes have thrown themselves at me. Cassie has never been one of them. I guess I’m not irresistible after all.
Despite the cool air swirling around me, I still feel overheated. I jerk my bowtie from my neck and shove it into my pocket before starting to remove my cufflinks. I’m so intent on the task, I walk right into someone. The impact flips my platinum cufflink out of my hand and traps my arm between my own body and a set of pillowy tits.
“Damn,” I mumble under my breath before stepping back. “My apologies, miss.”
“It’s my fault,” the woman replies. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”
Her voice sounds young and vaguely familiar, which makes sense given that I’ve met everyone at this ball at least once. The outdoor lighting is muted, but I can see she’s wearing a mask that covers her entire face except her lips. I think it’s supposed to be a bumblebee. It’s made of black and gold beads, arranged in vertical stripes. Two black things poke up from the top of the mask, right between her eyes.
Looking down at the ground, I say, “I lost my cufflink when we collided.”
The cufflinks are expensive, inlaid with diamonds and sapphires in the shape of the House of Trioni crest. More important, they have sentimental value—my father gave them to me.
I silently curse myself for leaving my phone in my tuxedo jacket. I could’ve used the flashlight feature to search for my missing cufflink.
“Umm...” She clears her throat. “I think I know where it is.”
I turn in a circle, trying to spot it. “You see it? Where?”
“It’s ... it’s ...”
I wait for her to finish the sentence, but when a few seconds pass, I feel compelled to say, “If you were trying to make the moment suspenseful, you succeeded.”
A choked laugh erupts from her, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Where is it?” I ask, not bothering to hide my impatience.
“It fell down my dress, and it’s ... stuck in my bustier.”
My eyes reflexively drop to her chest. Her black chiffon dress exposes one shoulder and a mouth-watering amount of cleavage.
For a second, I hope she’ll ask me to retrieve my cufflink. The idea of sliding my hand down her bodice and feeling her smooth skin makes my cock twitch. I’m more than a little surprised because I haven’t had sexual thoughts about anyone other than Cassie in a long, long time.
The woman extends her arm, a rectangular clutch in her hand. Any questions I had about her mask are answered—her purse is decorated with tiny beaded bumblebees.
“Hold this, please.”
She shoves the clutch into my hand before spinning and putting her back to me. The skin of her neck and shoulders gleams like a South Sea pearl against the dark fabric of her dress.
Her head tips down, and I hear the whisper of fabric. I can only assume she’s searching for my cufflink. A frustrated sound drifts from her before she mutters something under her breath.
“Problem?” I ask.
“I can’t get it.” Her voice trembles, and I can’t tell if she’s about to cry or laugh. “It’s slipped too far ... down, and my dress is too tight.”
I ponder the problem for a moment before suggesting, “The folly isn’t too far away.” When she doesn’t reply, I realize she might need some clarification. “A folly is an outdoor building that—”
“I know what a folly is,” she replies, her tone telling me that I’m guilty of the heinous crime of mansplaining.
“Then you know it’d give you some privacy to retrieve my cufflink.”
“You want me to go somewhere secluded, in the dark, with a strange man.”
I narrow my eyes. She sounds so damn familiar. I consider asking her name but then decide against it. I don’t want to introduce myself as Prince Marco and deal with the fawning that inevitably occurs afterward.
“I’m harmless.” I hold my hands out near my sides, palms up. “I swear it.”
“Says the man wearing the mask of a deadly predator.”
“Would you feel better if I was wearing a sheep mask to broadcast how harmless I really am?”
“Then you’d be a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” she counters.
I shake my head, amused by her quick wit. She reminds me a little of Cassie.
Although the woman in fro
nt of me is taller and thinner than Cassie, her mouth is similar, full with a lush lower lip. Of course, Cassie would never wear glossy lipstick the color of Bing cherries. On the rare occasion when she wears lipstick, it’s always barely there beige.
“Okay.” The masked woman lets loose with a gusty sigh. “Which direction is the folly? I’m turned around.”
Pointing left, I say, “This way.”
After I give the clutch back to her, we start the trek to the folly. The silence is worse than awkward. Tension stretches between us, taut like a tightrope, so I do what I always do in these uncomfortable situations—turn on the charm.
“I like your mask. A bumblebee, right?”
She touches the top of one antenna. “Yes.”
“Ever been stung by one?”
“No. You?”
“One flew down the collar of my shirt when I was a teenager and stung me seventeen times.”
She sucks in an audible breath. “That sounds horribly painful.”
“It wasn’t too bad.” I’m lying. It hurt like a motherfucker, and I needed several steroid shots to reduce the swelling. “Only female bumblebees can sting. Male bumblebees don’t have a stinger.”
“So the boys have to rely on the girls for protection.”
Her quip makes me smile. “Just like humans.” I remove the remaining cufflink from my shirt and tuck it into my pants pocket for safekeeping. “Did you know bumblebees’ wings move at more than two hundred beats per second?”
“Ahh ... no, I didn’t know that.”
Injecting a lightness into my tone, I say, “You might be interested to know that bumblebees feed on the nectar from flowering plants, and when they’ve eaten all of it, they mark the flower to let other bees know it’s all gone.”
“Fascinating.” A beat of silence passes before she asks, “Are you into insects or something?”
Or something.
I’m into Cassie, and since she’s interested in entomology, I read a couple of books about insects, hoping we could talk about them. So what if the books were written for children? I still read them, didn’t I?
A dozen steps more, and the shadowed shape of the folly comes into view. Darkness shrouds the cylindrical building, the glow of the moon providing just enough illumination to see the stairs leading into the stone structure.
Coming to a stop at the base of the stairs, I say, “I don’t have my phone with me. Do you? It’d be nice to have a flashlight in the folly.”
“Of course.” She snaps open the clutch and pulls out her phone. “Oh.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Finally, she says, “My phone’s dead. I didn’t charge it before I left home.”
I abruptly realize how vulnerable she must feel—alone with a stranger and unable to use her phone to call for help if she needs it.
“Do you want to return to the ball?” I ask, doing my best to keep my tone calm and soothing.
“No.”
Angling my arm toward her, I say, “Then let me help you up the stairs.”
“You can wait here.” Her voice is firm, letting me know it’s not a suggestion. “This won’t take long.”
I nod agreeably. “As you wish.”
I watch as she navigates the stairs with carefully placed steps and disappears through the folly’s arched entrance. Feeling fidgety, I grab the loose cuff of my shirtsleeve and begin to fold it. I’m working on the other sleeve when I hear her voice, floating on the flower-scented air.
“Wolf?”
My lips quirk in an involuntary smile. “Yes, Bumblebee?”
“I need your help.” I hear a very loud, very frustrated huff. “Can you come up here?”
Heeding her request, I slip off my mask and tuck the snout into the waistband of my trousers, near the small of my back, before taking the stairs two at a time. Once I’m at the top, I peer through the arched doorway, barely able to perceive her shape. She’s facing away from me, the creamy skin of her upper back contrasting with the inky darkness.
“I’m here. How can I be of service?”
“Your stupid cufflink is caught in a weird spot.” Frustration sharpens her voice. “I can’t get it from the top or the bottom without unzipping my dress.”
“And you need my help with your zipper?” I guess.
“You must be a genius,” she replies dryly.
With my hands outstretched, I take several steps toward her. “Close, but not quite. My IQ falls in the very superior range.”
“Just like your attitude.”
Her glib insult elicits a surprised chuckle from me. Before I can respond, my fingers encounter the fabric of her dress. One more step brings me close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. My heart is beating a lot faster than normal, thudding in my chest like I’ve been running sprints.
Trying to relax, I take a deep breath and catch a whiff of her skin, a scent that reminds me of the vanilla custard that fills an éclair. As I inhale another breath, I abruptly realize this masked woman smells like Cassie—Cassie, who’s hundreds of miles away, in Italy. Cassie, who’s probably fucking her boyfriend comatose at this exact moment.
And just like that, I’m angry again. I feel it in my chest and my stomach, like lava spewing out of a volcano.
“What are you waiting for?” the woman asks.
Her question sinks deep, taking on a far different meaning than she intends. I was waiting for Cassie ... waiting for her to want me ... waiting for something that’s never going to happen.
“Wolf?”
Moving closer, I slide my hand over the dress until I find the seam of the zipper. I follow it until I reach the metal tab and grasp it with my thumb and forefinger.
As I tug down the zipper, it makes a metallic hiss that pierces the silence of the folly and creates little prickles of heat all over my body. My knuckles brush against the curve of her ass just before the zipper ends. Still holding the tab, I notice she’s trembling.
“Why are you trembling?” When she doesn’t answer, I add, “I told you before, I’m completely harmless.”
Her shoulders lift with an inhalation. “Not completely, Wolf.”
“Are you afraid of me, Bumblebee?”
“No.”
“Cold?”
“No.”
Her breathing is audible now, louder than the roar of blood in my ears. She’s almost panting with the effort to bring air into her lungs.
“Excited?”
She answers without hesitation, “Yes.”
A thought slithers though my mind, quick as a black mamba, only far more dangerous: I can’t have Cassie, but I can have this woman. The only question is whether I want her.
I let go of the zipper pull and curve my palm over her hip. The rough pads of my fingers snag on the delicate chiffon, and an image flashes into my head—running my fingers across her shoulders, tracing them along the bumps of her spine to the small of her back, dipping them between her ass cheeks, and then finding the wet heat of her cunt.
Fire suffuses my body, concentrating in my pelvis. My cock thickens, pressing against the cotton of my boxer briefs.
A voice inside me roars: You don’t know this woman, Marco. You don’t fuck strangers. That’s not who you are anymore. You don’t really want to do this.
Another voice joins my internal debate: She reminds you of Cassie. You know she’s the closest you’re ever going to get to having her.
I step forward until my front presses against her back and tilt my hips forward, letting her feel my hard cock. Placing my mouth against her ear, I ask, “Do you want me to find my cufflink?”
CHAPTER THREE
Cassie
I said yes.
Sometimes I moaned it. Sometimes I whispered it. Sometimes I screamed it.
Yes. Every single time.
Over and over and over again.
And now—five weeks later—I wonder what the hell I was thinking.
Yes, I w
as feeling a little down after breaking up with Zac, but that’s not why I had sex with a masked stranger. I said yes because Wolf reminded me of Marco—his height, his build, his voice, his charm.
I should’ve said no. But I didn’t.
When Wolf asked if I wanted him to slide his hands inside my bustier, I said yes. And when he palmed my breasts and played with my nipples and asked if I wanted more, I said yes.
When he propelled me toward the folly’s wall, stopping only when my nose was inches from the cold stone, and arranged my hands so they rested beside my head, I whispered yes. And when he bunched my dress in one fist and asked if he could touch me, I said yes.
When he tugged my panties to my ankles and danced his fingers down the crack of my ass and asked if I wanted more, I whispered yes. And when he rubbed my clit with his thumb and pushed three fingers inside me, making me shiver and shake against him, and asked if I was close, I screamed yes when I came.
When he asked if I had a condom, I said yes. And when he clenched his fingers into my hips and worked his thick cock into me, inch by luscious inch, and asked if it felt good, I whispered yes, even though it felt more than good. It felt amazing.
When he asked if I wanted it deeper ... harder ... faster, I moaned yes. And when he fucked me like I’ve never been fucked before, I screamed yes, yes, yes, yes.
I said yes to Wolf, pretending that Marco was touching me ... that Marco was filling me with his cock ... that Marco was making me come.
Marco, whom I saw at the party, talking to Leo and Tessa as I left the ball to wander the garden. I know it was Marco because he was wearing a jester’s mask and his usual white dinner jacket. He always wears it at formal events and always pairs it with a bright white tuxedo shirt.
I said yes because I wanted Marco, and I knew this stranger in a wolf mask was the closest I’d ever get. I knew it was wrong, but I still said yes.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve yelled no at the top of my lungs.
But I didn’t.
So here I am, almost five weeks pregnant. I could add a long list of adjectives to go along with pregnant: disbelieving, scared, unsure, ashamed, overwhelmed... You get the idea.
