The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “One, I will take that as a yes to enlisting your help next time I go to a masquerade ball. Also, side note, are there more? Are masquerades like a thing around town?”

  “I hope they are, and if so, we’ll have to find them.”

  We. More. Next time.

  We haven’t even had a first time, and we’re already talking seconds. This is new for me too, but I like how instant this attraction is for her as well. “And two,” I add. “Knock, knock.”

  She gives a coy smile. “Who’s there?”

  “To.”

  “To who?”

  “To whom,” I say, like a grammar policeman.

  She laughs. “Have I mentioned how much correct grammar turns me on?”

  I wiggle my eyebrows and yank her closer, so we’re inches apart. “No, but have I told you I never let my modifiers dangle?”

  “And do you also know how to conjugate properly?” she asks in a purr.

  “Even better. I can conjugate improperly too.”

  She raises a hand and fans herself. “Now you’re getting me truly turned on.”

  She likes me, she’s flirting with me, and she has no idea who I am. Yes, this mask was a brilliant idea in my list of brilliant ideas. The music picks up speed, and I twirl her around once more.

  “Seriously, how did you learn to dance?” she asks again. “And don’t say YouTube.”

  “Because that’s where everyone learns everything these days?”

  She nods. “Or Instagram. That’s where I learned you can slice cake incredibly well using dental floss.”

  “Why not just use a knife?”

  She shrugs. “I suppose it’s for those times in your life when you desperately need to slice a cake and don’t have a knife handy.”

  “Hmm. So, if I’m traveling and I need to slice a cake in my hotel room, I’d use the floss rather than call room service for a knife?”

  She nods. “Clearly. What else would you do? Also, you have such pretty teeth. I would imagine you have lots of”—she slows, takes her time, and nibbles on the corner of her lips—“floss.”

  My breath hitches. “How is it that you’re able to say ‘dental floss’ and make it sound naughty?”

  “I suppose it’s one of my many talents. So tell me, Non-Ninja, where did you learn to dance?”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’ll probably laugh.”

  “YouTube.”

  She laughs sweetly. “Seriously?”

  I nod. “I figured I needed a life skill beyond math, numbers, and computers. I learned how to dance online.”

  She curls her hands over my shoulders. “You’re a nerd.” The words come out as if she just said I was a rock star or a pro quarterback. She says it with affection and, honestly, a whole lot of desire.

  “Shocking, isn’t it, that I’m a nerd?”

  “A hot nerd, to be precise,” she adds.

  I bring her closer. “So are you.”

  “You’re a very hot, witty nerd.”

  I’m damn close to kissing her on this dance floor. But I’d rather get her away from everyone else. I lean in to whisper, “Same to you, you incredibly sexy hot nerd I want to kiss.”

  She lets out a murmur, and when I pull back to meet her eyes again, I ask, “Have you seen the library here?”

  “There’s a library?” Her pitch rises.

  “Yes. Why don’t we check out the books and you can tell me more about your Monopoly strategy and the taxi apps you didn’t fund?”

  “Why, yes, your grace. I’d love to.”

  I laugh. “I’m not a duke.”

  “Can we pretend you are?”

  “Of course, Angel. I can be whoever you want.”

  As long as it’s not me.

  The door crawls shut.

  Inch by inch.

  A slow-mo door.

  I have no patience for its theatrics. I kick it shut, eager for the next part of the evening to begin.

  Her laughter sounds across the library and echoes off its dark wood shelves bursting with books. A leather couch takes center stage, flanked by a mahogany table.

  “Are you in a rush to read something?” she asks coyly.

  Her voice turns me on. It’s like bourbon and honey. A little throaty and husky, but with sweet undertones. Funny, how when you can’t see someone’s face—at least, not all of it—your other senses heighten. Your ears work harder, homing in on the voice, or you zoom in on the eyes. Hers are warm hazel with flecks of bronze and green.

  “Why, yes, I was looking for a particular book.” I stroll to the bookshelf along one wall, running my fingers across the spines, from old hardcovers like Tess of the d’Urbervilles to modern thrillers from the likes of Clive Cussler to non-fiction reads on the habits of highly effective people. “I thought if you wanted to go to the library you’d want to read. Naturally.”

  “Of course. Read me a story. A bedtime story.” She leans against the wall next to a writing desk with a green lamp on it, the kind that has one of those chains you pull down to turn it on. She goes with the moment, and this night seems like role-play with her. I half want to understand who she is. But in a way, I’d rather experience everything she seems to want to give. Her body. Her mouth. Her mind. Whoever she is here in the library is as real as whoever she is behind the mask. My mission is to make sure she gets everything she wants.

  I grab the nearest book and crack it open. It’s a James Patterson. “Once upon a time, there was a woman at a party who wanted to be kissed,” I say, walking to her, the pages open.

  The angel raises her hands to her hair and sweeps off the headband that holds her halo. She tosses it to the desk. “That sounds like a very scintillating tale.”

  6

  Sabrina

  The night is glitter. It’s fireworks. It’s an unexpected victory in a game I didn’t intend to play. I’m almost at the finish line, about to win Boardwalk.

  Tonight doesn’t belong to my failed wedding, to my cursed dress, to the thief who raised me. It sure as hell doesn’t belong to my lost job.

  This night is mine, and I’m going to take my winnings, this delicious morsel of pure pleasure the universe is serving on a silver platter. Tomorrow, I have to return to my regular life where I’m scraping by, fighting for every damn thing I need and want. Hell, I might turn into a pumpkin at midnight. But right now? There’s a man who wants me. A man I want.

  I didn’t come here for a guy. But now that he’s found me—this other version of me—I want him to keep talking, keep touching, and keep going.

  Now I truly understand why all the heroines in those historical romances craved masquerades so much. You can let down your guard, talk freely, tease. It’s so much easier to be who you are when no one knows who you are.

  I’m not a woman with an unused wedding dress. I’m this other version of me. Tonight’s me. A woman with no past. And the man in my present is so damn handsome—at least, what I can see of him. His square jaw, his lush lips, and his green eyes captivate me.

  He glances down at the book, as if reading from it, then back up at me. “She had the prettiest lips,” he says, and my stomach swoops.

  Then, because we’re playing our parts, I imagine what comes next in my script, and I do it. No holding back. I blow an almost imperceptible kiss in his direction, whispering into the air, “Did she?”

  He hums an appreciative sound then tosses the book onto the desk. Closing the distance between us, he runs a finger over my top lip. I gasp.

  His gaze pins me, and the butterflies in my belly escalate to full-blown dives. “And the most mischievous eyes he’d ever seen.”

  He runs a hand along my hip, and I ignite. Fire burns everywhere. I shudder as he touches me.

  “And an absolutely addictive body,” he adds.

  I think I want him addicted to me. “How do you know I’m addictive?”

  “I don’t. But I want to find out. That’s why I’m telling the story.”

  “What happens next
?” My voice sounds breathless, maybe even a little giddy.

  “The narrator isn’t finished extolling the virtues of the woman who wanted to be kissed.”

  “What are the other virtues?” I ask, gobbling up his compliments like they’re a bowlful of candy. I want to eat them all then take another handful too.

  “Her lips aren’t just pretty. All these words that spilled from her wicked mouth, and her wicked mind, had a particular effect on a certain man.”

  I arch a brow above the outline of my mask. “What sort of effect?”

  He moves closer. “I think you know.”

  “And this man, I wonder who he is.”

  He’s inches away, and I’m on the edge. My whole body vibrates with anticipation. “I think you like not knowing who he is,” he says.

  I shake my head, as the confident, masked me answers, “You’re wrong.”

  He wrenches back. “Why am I wrong?”

  Time to go for Boardwalk. Time to make my move. I loop my hands around his neck, jerking him closer. “I love not knowing.”

  I go for it. I’m soft at first, but not tentative. I brush my lips to his, dusting across his mouth.

  We’re not soft for long.

  He shifts the kiss to hard. Rough. A little desperate. A lot needy. And full of promise.

  It’s one of those kisses that doesn’t exist on its own, but as part of a continuum. It will become a mouth over skin, a tongue tracing the softest parts of me. It will lead into hotter, wetter kisses that don’t stop. It will turn sloppy and wild as we fuck.

  He’s kissing me that way, his hand running up my neck, traveling along the braided section of my hair. I moan into his mouth because it feels so damn good the way he sweeps his thumb over my cheekbone as if he’s imprinting the feel of me, memorizing me.

  We kiss harder and deeper, our tongues tangling. Our bodies press and grind, and I wonder if he’s curious why I’m a jack-in-the-box tonight, wound up, full of a desperate need to get closer.

  But maybe he’s not thinking of why, because it’s enough for him to be the object of all my pent-up desire, this unknown man, this stranger. Briefly, a neon sign flashes in my brain—who is this man behind all this black? He could be anyone.

  But I know enough. He’s in this field. He’s a venture capitalist of sorts. That’s more than I need to know.

  Besides, I don’t truly care what he does for a living.

  I care how he makes me feel.

  His kisses should be labeled “known to induce swooning.” His touch should be listed as the kind that can melt me into a puddle. Because that’s who I am right now. I’m dissolving into sugary-sweet pleasure as he touches me.

  Names don’t matter. Jobs don’t matter.

  All I need to know is this man can kiss.

  He can flirt.

  He can dance.

  He can talk.

  He can play along with the fantasy I always knew I had but never pursued.

  And there’s one more thing I want to know.

  I break the kiss, murmuring, “And what happens next in the story?”

  His green eyes are blazing, wild almost. But his voice is calm and confident as he holds my gaze. “The woman at the party wanted the duke to fuck her.”

  I groan, my knees buckling as electricity skates wildly over my skin.

  “She does want that,” I whisper. “I want that.”

  He hisses in pleasure as I drag my fingers down his black pullover, exploring his firm chest through the fabric, then tiptoeing along the hard planes of his abs. I raise my fingers and run the backs of them over his chin. Holding his jaw in my right hand, I stare through the slits of his mask into those delicious green eyes. “You’re adorable, and I want you to fuck me.” I pause for effect. “In a fuck-me-senseless kind of way.”

  He groans, and the sound seems to hum through him, rumbling up his chest, escaping his lips, which rise in a cocky, boyish grin. It’s like a wolf met a tiger cub and they spar for supremacy inside him.

  “That’s exactly what I plan to do, Angel.”

  He grabs my hands from his face and spins me around, raising my wrists above my head. The next thing I know, his long, lean frame is pressed against me, his chest to my back, his hard length pushing against the fabric covering my ass.

  Ribbons flutter from my arms. My wings are spread. My dress is indeed giving me a whole new start.

  Gently, he brushes loose strands of hair from my shoulder, exposing my neck. I tremble in anticipation, waiting, so eagerly. He presses a kiss to the back of my neck, and I shudder in its wake. One soft kiss there makes me weak and ravenous at the same time.

  He kisses a trail to my earlobe, nibbling on it. My breath hitches as bursts of pleasure zip through me. There isn’t a part of my body, not a single molecule, not a solitary cell that doesn’t want whatever he’s going to give me.

  He traces my neck with the tip of his tongue, and my murmurs turn into pleas. My body begs for him with an ache that vibrates from the very center of me.

  I feel his hands move lower, down my sides, over my belly, along the front of my skirt, then under the hem. His fingers graze up my thighs, and a pulse beats between my legs.

  “Masks on or off?”

  I shake my head. “On. Leave them on. I like it like this.”

  He kisses my earlobe once more, whispering, “As you wish.”

  His fingers feather over my thighs, reaching the apex between them, traveling across my panties. It’s his turn to groan as he touches the wet lace that leaves nothing to the imagination. “You do like it, Angel.”

  I nod on a ragged pant. “So much.”

  His fingers dip under the fabric as he presses harder against my back, crowding me to the wall, caging me in. I tremble as he touches me for the first time.

  He groans roughly, grinding his body against me. “So slippery.”

  I’m already seeing stars. I’m hovering on the cusp of coming so very soon. I whimper as he runs his fingers across me, gliding, flying. It’s so delicious, every stolen touch from my stranger.

  He moves faster, making me shudder, making me moan. I drop my head to the wall, my forehead hitting under a picture frame of a man on a horse, I think. Galloping away. That’s how I feel. Like I’m racing so fast toward something beyond the frame.

  Pleasure winds its way up my legs, spirals down my chest, radiates in and out. Everywhere.

  He pushes a finger inside me, then another, and I moan wildly, sounding like an animal as I grind down on him, seeking more friction, seeking my release. He rubs against me, fucking me with his fingers, stroking me with his thumb.

  I’m so wet, so slick, and everything feels outrageously sinful.

  The wild sensations coil into an exquisite tightening in my belly. Once, twice, and I’m there. I’m racing to the edge as he strokes, grinding his body against my ass as his fingers take me all the way.

  My brain is static, a wonderful white-out, a blizzard with the snow blurring everything else in the world as I come. I tingle everywhere—my skin, my lips, my legs.

  I’m panting, murmuring, as he spins me around, facing him.

  When I open my eyes, drunk on my orgasm, he’s licking his fingers. He looks possessed. His eyes blaze as he stares at me, sucking me off his index finger. He presses his thumb against my jaw. “You taste like dessert. Next time I want to spread you out before me and devour you, but right now I’m going to fuck you just the way you want.”

  He can do anything to me. “Take me. Have me.”

  He reaches into his pocket and grabs a condom. Somewhere in the back of my mind I want to ask if he just carries it around, but then, he seems like the type of man who’s prepared for anything—a joke, a dance, or a fuck in a library at a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side.

  As he opens the packet, my fingers busy themselves with his zipper, sliding it down until I reach the top of his boxer briefs. When his black jeans hang low on his hips, I push down his briefs, freeing his cock.

>   My mouth waters as I gaze at his length, hard and heavy and so thick. I run my hand across his shaft, and he stops opening the packet, his eyes floating closed, his lips parting, a shudder moving through his body.

  Power.

  This feels like power.

  Like something I haven’t experienced in the longest time. It’s intoxicating, and I want so much more of it—of his reaction, of the vulnerability in the set of his jaw and the parting of his lips as I stroke him, feeling how aroused he is. His skin is hot and so hard, and I’m going to take him inside me. “I want to feel all of you.”

  His eyes open. He shakes his head in wonder. “Who are you?”

  I smile because I know he doesn’t actually want an answer, but I love that he’s asked the question. “Your mystery girl.”

  He blinks, like he has to shake off the lust to finish the job of rolling on the protection. As he pinches the top of the condom, I slide out of my panties. He positions himself between my legs and hikes up my thigh around his hip. Guiding him, I rub the tip against all that wetness.

  “God, you feel so fucking good and I’m not even inside you yet.”

  He pushes in, and for the briefest second, I feel stretched in ways I haven’t felt stretched in too long. He’s so deep in me, I draw a sharp inhale, then I sigh blissfully.

  I want to use his name. I want to say Duke, or Ninja, or John, or David, or Mr. Venture Fund, or whoever he is. Instead, I blurt out, “I don’t think it’s going to take me long at all.”

  He moves inside me, stroking in and out, filling me. I’m vaguely aware of the sounds of the party from far beyond the door, the low beat of the music, the chatter of the crowd, and then us, all the sensations.

  My pants. His groans.

  The wet slickness of me taking him in deep.

  His lips sliding across mine.

  His breath on my neck.

  The press of my back on the wall.

  We’re in our own cocoon of one-night lust, of crazy, instant chemistry here in the library as the stealth start-up screws the angel investor against the wall. I band my arms around his neck, all the chiffon and funny money hitting his arms, his shoulders.