by Alison Kent
Isabel’s breath caught in her chest. He was handing her no line. She believed him, from the wavering fronds of her feathers to the tips of her tingling toes.
Without a doubt, he was the one.
She let out the breath. Her voice must have lifted on the same gust of air because her usual husky tones tinkled like the chimes of a Christmas chorus. “If that’s truly the case, you must follow me upstairs.”
“HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW this place?” Tom said, after they’d stolen up the curved staircase with their hands linked as if they were naughty children who’d been on a midnight spy mission. Isabel had liberated a bottle of champagne from one of the monogrammed ice buckets that were set up on gilt-legged tables at various points around the room.
“Well enough. This is my second invitation to Rafe’s New Year’s Eve ball.”
“My first,” he said, lying without compunction. He was in this now, all the way. It was happening so fast, and felt so right there was no time for doubt.
Isabel stopped midway along the second-story gallery that encircled the ballroom. “I knew you couldn’t have been here last year. I’d have found you.”
“How?”
“Intuition.” She pressed against him, moving her entire body in a seductive caress. “Pheromones.”
He smoothed her feathers. “Careful, or you’ll have me believing in fate.”
“For tonight, we both do.” She tugged his hand. “Come on, I know just the place.”
As the party carried on below, they hurried along the carpeted gallery, passing dimly lit hallway openings and niches carved into the stucco walls, filled with museum-quality pieces of artwork—marble statues, glazed urns, small oil paintings murky with crackled varnish. The luxury was little more than a blur to Tom. He’d almost decided not to come at all, until a sudden spurt of anger with his timidity had gotten him moving.
This could be his lone chance to be with Isabel. He had to try.
“Here,” she said, stopping before an alcove.
“Here?” Tom asked. The corners of his mouth lifted.
The alcove was not completely private, but it was quite a setting for seduction. Burgundy velvet curtains swagged the archway of a nook that was only big enough for a small round table and a deep recamier with thickly rolled arms and walnut legs carved into winged lions. It was piled with pillows and lushly padded, upholstered in a tufted burgundy velvet. The walls were a striped raw silk. The enclosure was lit by a pair of gilt sconces dripping with amber cut-crystal bobeches.
Isabel set the bottle of champagne on the side table. “Big enough for two.”
Tom’s grin expanded. Was this really going to happen so easily? “Sure, if we’re willing to share our space.”
“Aren’t we?” She turned and took hold of his black satin lapels to pull him down with her as she sank onto the chaise. He landed on all fours, holding himself above her as he found her mouth. Slowly lowering his body onto hers, he deepened the kiss degree by degree until they were caught up in flames. Their tongues brushed, twisted, plunged, lost to the total abandon of the moment.
Except that the moment stretched into minutes, and then into five, and still they hadn’t stopped kissing. Their masks ground against each other, shedding tiny red feathers and flakes of gold leaf. A rhinestone popped off Isabel’s mask and pinged against the glass bottle of champagne. She only laughed, her neck arching as he pressed a hand to her forehead, tilting her face so he could drink kiss after wet kiss from her open mouth. His hunger was overwhelming. It was wild and huge and it went far beyond even his most intimate fantasies of how he would be with Isabel.
“Please let me lift your mask,” he said. “I have to kiss your eyes, your nose, your forehead….”
A couple walked by arm in arm, laughing indulgently when they spied the lovers in the alcove.
“Pull the drapes,” Isabel said hurriedly, “and I promise you’ll get to see all of me.”
He fumbled with the gold tasseled cords, freeing them. The drapes dropped shut, enclosing them in dim privacy. While the heavy fabric muted the sounds of the party, they could still hear the excitement as the midnight zenith approached.
Isabel reached out a hand to hold the curtain back, and they both peered through the crack to the fairy lights strung from the railing to the central chandelier. Tom was surprised to realize how erotic and stimulating it was to know that they would soon be in the throes of lovemaking while some twenty-odd feet away, the crowd carried on unaware.
He studied Isabel for a moment before dropping his head to trail kisses along her bare arm. “The mask,” he said.
“But we can’t know each other.”
He stopped, kneeling above her. “Why?” If the evening was a success, he fully intended to reveal his identity. She would be shocked, of course. But he’d make her see that this was the only way. She’d come to understand.
Isabel hesitated. “Be-because this is a fantasy.”
Tom’s voice dropped, grating in his throat. “Only a fantasy?”
“Only…?” She shook her head, smiling as she regained control. “No. That implies less. What I want from you tonight is more than either of us has ever dared dream.”
4
“FOR THAT, I need to see your face.”
“Why?” Isabel asked.
“Call it my fantasy.” The stranger stroked a hand over her upraised thigh, sliding the layers of her dress higher.
She shivered with the hot-and-cold sensations of wanting him so badly that she feared what it meant. He was asking her to reveal herself. Not an unreasonable request, except she couldn’t help feeling that all her emotions might spill out with the lifting of her mask.
Pfft. Nonsense. She was made of sterner stuff.
“On one condition,” she said. “You have to promise you won’t try to find me afterward.”
There was a long silence, and she thought she’d lost him. The deep squeezing pain she suddenly felt surprised her. Because…because…he seemed to promise so much more than an affair with a stranger. Yet that was supposed to be all she wanted from him.
At last he nodded. “I promise not to look for you.”
Her stomach swirled with unusual trepidation as he leaned forward, reaching for her mask. He’d already seen her face, after all. She was risking very little.
He slid his fingertips beneath the feathers to find the hard edge of the mask, then pulled it past her brow, stretching the elastic until it snapped off the back of her head. The trailing ends of the scarlet ribbon trim slipped across her cheeks as he lifted the mask away. The air was cool on her heated skin.
His dark eyes stared at her from behind the lion’s face. “You’re very beautiful.”
Isabel had grown up believing she was ugly. Her stepfather had called her a Heinz 57 mutt because of her mixed heritage—her mother was Indian and Asian, and her late father was Italian with a mélange of other European countries thrown in for good measure. She’d also been gawky and skinny and too poor to dress nicely. Only when she’d come into her own as a young woman away from that hated house and developed a circle of loving friends of every ethnicity had she accepted herself for being uniquely American.
“Cat’s eyes,” he said, tracing a finger over the tilt of her lids.
She flicked her tongue. “Make me purr.”
“My pleasure.” He touched his mask. “Should I take this off first?”
“Leave it,” she said instantly. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see his face. In fact, she was ridden with an intense curiosity. But the secrecy was even better—and safer. “Leave your tuxedo on, too.”
He cocked his head. His eyes glinted.
“It’s part of the fantasy,” she said, not knowing how to put into words the image she had in her head of her supine naked body spread before a fully clothed male, a wild, beastly stranger who would take her with savage lust boiling in his veins….
Oh, who was she kidding with her resolution for restraint? Give her a shot with t
he right man and she was as wicked as ever!
“Whatever you want,” he said.
She lay back on the pillows, her arms reaching overhead in a luxurious stretch. Her legs were immodestly parted, tangled around his waist, one foot dangling near the floor. “I want you to open the champagne. It will be the new year soon, and we must have some at midnight.”
He leaned across her to snag the bottle. She sank her fingers into his thick hair, using it to draw him to her for another kiss. She nibbled at his jaw, licked the small cleft in his chin, suckled on his lower lip, all the while resisting the urge to get his name. “I’m going to call you Leo,” she announced.
He had rested the cold bottle against her abdomen. “I’ll call you…Puss.”
She laughed, giving another lazy stretch. “Rowrrr.”
“Or maybe Bella would be more appropriate.”
She jerked up to her elbows. “Bella?”
“Because this evening has an Italian theme.” He bowed his head. “And, of course, in honor of your remarkable beauty.”
“Hmm.” She waited for the prickles of suspicion to pass. “True beauty takes longer to know. I prefer Puss.”
A silence fell between them, relieved only by the sounds of celebration from the ballroom. “Leo” had peeled the foil from the champagne and was working the cork free, but the task didn’t require that much concentration. Had she put him off by pointing out that he didn’t know the inner her—and never would?
“Puss it is,” he said. “You do realize that we have no glasses?”
“We’ll have to share the bottle.”
His hot gaze skimmed her body. “Or lap it up from elsewhere.”
With a loud pop, the cork flew from the bottle, bouncing off the velvet drape. The champagne foamed up, spattering both of them before he brought it to his mouth and took a long swallow.
“Now I’m wet,” she said, laughing as she brushed at the spots dampening her satin top.
He grinned and passed her the bottle. “Now?”
She took a swig before reclining again. Indeed, a liquid heat had been pooling between her thighs from the moment they’d met. “You know what I mean.”
He glanced over her, trying to frown. “I’ll have to remove your dress.”
She winked. “Watch the claws.”
“Yours or mine?”
Her laughter bubbled. “Also the whiskers and teeth.”
His lips pulled back and he clicked his very white teeth. “Don’t worry. I’ve never injured anyone.”
“Well, mmm, then I surrender myself to you.” She set the bottle aside and reached for her skirts, gathering them up in her hands, pulling them toward her waist as she twisted against the cushions. She was on fire, unable to keep still. “I think I’m in heat.”
“I feel that.” His palm coasted along her thighs as he pushed her skirts to her waist. With a low growl, he pressed his face among the chiffon, against her belly. He inhaled. “I smell that.”
Desire exploded in Isabel. She wanted to rip the dress off. Instead she took his head in her hands, moaning at the swipe of his tongue as he found her hot skin beneath the layers of chiffon and lace. He laved her, the mask riding up as he rubbed his face over her stomach and thighs before going to the center of her need, nipping at the lace thong, his tongue darting beneath it to lap at the moist heat flowing from her.
She looked down. Oh my. His head had completely disappeared beneath the poufy dress.
Her thighs opened wider. “Please…”
He came up for air, his mask askew. She caught a split-second glimpse of a sizable nose and warm brown eyes before he readjusted it. Before she could comment, he had snapped her thong with one sharp tug and tossed the flimsy piece of lace to the floor, looking only at her face. Almost glaring.
A tiny fear tickled her nerve endings, making her give a start and a shiver. The sense of danger was sweet. Delicious.
Leo said nothing. No need. She could read his thoughts as he leaned over her. He wanted her naked. Now.
She gave no thought to the dress as he dragged the red satin from her breasts, snaps popping, the zipper at the back giving a metallic screech as it tore apart. The condoms she’d tucked inside her bodice scattered. Together, they shoved the dress away, and she was nude but for the high-heeled sandals. He glanced once at the complicated ribbons, then reached for the champagne.
She crossed her arms over her abdomen, almost wanting to cover up from his eyes. “Uh-uh,” he said, gently pulling her arms free so he had an unobstructed view of her body. His gaze traced over her skin as hot as a sparkler, shooting off snippets of fire. She was burning up.
As if he knew how she felt, he rolled the cold bottle over her thighs, for one erotic moment nudging it against her inflamed sex—the tingling shock fantastic against her clit—before he pressed the cool glass to her tummy, her ribs, and finally tilted the weighty vessel to its side and slid the neck between her breasts. Icy champagne spewed into her cleavage, bubbles fizzling, wet and ticklish. She let out a little yip, but immediately his mouth was there, sucking the sparkling wine from her skin.
She breathed a sibilant sigh. “Oh, yesss.”
He moved the bottle, deliberately tipping more of the champagne over her breasts. Following the path of liquid with his tongue and mouth, he alternately licked and tasted, squeezing a luxurious handful of her left breast while he butterfly-flicked her right nipple with his teeth. She arched into the caress, her legs twined around his hips.
Suddenly high-pitched laughter and several babbling female voices came from the other side of the curtain. Isabel flinched, then pantomimed relief as the party guests moved on in the direction of the staircase. “Hurry, it’s almost midnight,” one of them said.
Leo looked at Isabel. “Almost midnight. Do you want to come before it?”
“On the dot of,” she glibly challenged. “There’s no better way to start off a new year. Do you think you can manage that?”
He checked his watch, then looked at her breasts. “I can try.”
“Try lower.”
“Here?” He edged backward, spilling champagne into the hollow of her navel. Her stomach muscles twitched. He put his mouth against her skin and drank. Then refilled and drank more.
“Lower,” she said.
“Ahhh.” He pulled upright and grabbed a pillow, sliding it beneath her so her bottom was raised. His hands stroked over the entire length of her legs, pulling them free from around him before lifting her by the back of her knees, spreading her open, setting her spike heels at either edge of the width of the chaise. Then he retrieved the bottle and took a lusty swig while he gazed at the ripe, ready display.
She swallowed nervously. The waiting was sheer torture. Her inner muscles clenched and released, clenched and released.
His eyes found hers. He raised the bottle. “Want some?”
She nodded. He slanted over her, the lapels of his tux catching on her taut nipples. She threw back her head and opened her mouth, and he poured champagne into it until she was sputtering and laughing, trying to swallow as he kissed her.
“You taste better than champagne,” he whispered, dragging his tongue down her body until he was back where he started.
Before she could say anything, the mouth of the bottle touched between her legs. She tensed. “Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, but she shook her head, looking at the dull golden gleam of the lion’s mask positioned right there between her thighs. She wanted the champagne in her and his tongue in her and…
His fingers opened her, stroke by stroke. She began to move her hips, begging for it. Then finally the smooth glass lip was eased slightly inside her body and she saw the green bottle tilt upward and felt with a head-spinning rush the effervescence as cold champagne spilled against her hot flesh. Instantly his mouth replaced the bottle. Slick glass gave way to warm velvet as his tongue licked inside her, slurping up the champagne.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, riveted by
the sensation. “Again.”
And once more he put the bottle to her, using her as a cup. First came the cold spill of champagne, then the warm soft blade of his tongue.
A deep tremor ran through her. “Again.”
Downstairs, the noise level increased as the countdown to midnight began. “Ten, nine…”
The bottle touched her intimately, dipping at an angle.
“Eight, seven…”
There was a moment of exquisite pressure and then the fizzy champagne.
“Six, five…”
She tightened her muscles on the foaming liquid as her lover’s mouth replaced the bottle. His tongue thrust deeper than before, sucking out the champagne, probing, then withdrawing.
“Four, three…”
The pleasure gathered force inside her. She cried out as he filled her with his fingers and then his tongue again, hardened like an arrow-tip as it flicked over the tight pearl of her clit. Her hips rose to meet the rush of sensation, every tendon in her legs strung taut.
“Two, one…”
The tension and pleasure and pain exploded inside her. She shattered, coming in hard waves against his mouth as she added her keening voice to the clamor of noisemakers going off and crashing cymbals and people cheering in an elated chorus.
“Happy New Year!”
“DON’T STOP NOW,” she said a few moments later, when the world had quit spinning.
“Mmm.” She felt the vibration of his voice against her tummy. “Giving you a breather, Puss.”
“I don’t need one,” she said, even though she was panting. Her lungs hurt as if she’d run a race, but she took a deep breath to ease them, eager to continue. Her hand brushed through his hair. In the ballroom, the revelry went on.
She rocked her hips to be sure she had his attention. “I forgot to tell you.”
His head lifted. “What?”
