by Liz Meldon
“Thanks for the drink… again,” she told him. Then, without another word, Delia turned on the spot and cut across the dance floor, not stopping until there was some distance between her and the Fool.
For a short time, she tried to distract herself with the sea of dancers, the swirl of fabric and the flash of masks slowly blending into one living, breathing organism.
Through the fleeting gaps between couples, she saw him. The Fool. Watching her from across the room, he stood quite still amidst all the twirling and whirling, through the swishes of fabric, his glass of red wine in hand. She wasn’t sure why she decided to stay there, directly across from him. Maybe it was the fact that after a night in gorgeous, but painful, heels, her feet finally decided enough was enough. Time to stay in one place for a while.
Delia chose to ignore the fact that every time she did try to move, her feet were like heavy stones, keeping her in place, in the Fool’s line of sight.
When she looked back to him again this time, he was gone. Where he’d once been like a statue on the other side of the dance floor, he was now a creature gliding around its perimeter. His bells sang their familiar song as he drew nearer. Her heart thumped hard, palms breaking out in a cold sweat. Delia looked away, pretending to be interested elsewhere.
She couldn’t ignore him for long—especially when he snapped the champagne glass out of her hand. Surprised, she frowned at him, watching as he shoved both their drinks off on some unsuspecting masked man standing nearby. Delia’s eyes narrowed at him, but only because she felt like they should, and her brow lifted slightly when the Fool snatched her hand in his, a warm palm and long, slender fingers enveloping hers. She tipped her head to the side, studying their joined hands for a moment, and then chuckled.
“Still presumptuous, I see.”
“I prefer to think of it as bold,” he remarked, leaning in so close that their lips would have touched had she drawn a deep breath.
Delia stilled, her gasp caught in her throat.
Smirking, the Fool moved away as quickly as he swooped in, adding: “And romantic.”
“That’s a stretch,” she managed, though her voice was a breathy mess, barely heard above the music.
Leading the way, the Fool pulled her onto the dance floor, navigating expertly through the spinning couples. Colour and extravagance flashed at her from every direction—except for the Fool. While his mask was complex in its own way, his clothing was muted in darkness.
She stood in front of him, waiting, watching. The Fool gently took her free hand and placed it on his shoulder, and then reached for the other, pausing when he saw the clutch. Clearing her throat, Delia dug out the little strap, careful not to let him see the contents of the gold clutch she’d had since high school, and wrapped it around her wrist. When he took her hand in his, the clutch fell down to her crooked elbow, dangling between them, forgotten.
Their dancing lacked the elaborate spins and dips that the other couples displayed, even if the instrumental overtones dictated they pick up the pace. Maybe he realized the limitations of her dress, which was fitted straight down to her knees—a mistake, Delia realized, as the Fool led her through a relaxed waltz. If she’d wanted—or needed—to run at any point, her dress and heels would have made that cumbersome.
“You’re a good dancer,” the Fool told her. They’d drifted closer over the course of several songs, and she was an inch away from relaxing her head on his shoulder. Had it not been for those fucking bells jingling with each step, she might have done so already.
“I’ve been told I have good natural rhythm.”
It was one of the few things her higher-ups had praised her for during her tests at headquarters.
“Do you find it a talent that translates elsewhere?”
“As in…” When she caught the slight quirk of the corner of his lips, her cheeks coloured. Straightening, Delia raised a challenging eyebrow. “I think I have good rhythm in most areas of my life.”
He gave an interested hum, the sound like a distant thunder in his chest. His hand, which had settled on her waist for most of their waltz, slid around her lower back to the other side of her hips, pulling her to him. Delia swallowed hard, trying her best to ignore the flutter of excitement in her stomach.
“Have you enjoyed yourself this evening?” he asked, his words hot in her ear.
Over his shoulder, Delia spied a few couples watching them, but they all turned away when they realized they’d been caught. She cleared her throat again. “Yes.”
“Liar,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear.
She tried to turn in his arms, ready to argue, but he held firm as their feet continued the dance. One, two, three. One, two, three… “I’m not,” she retorted, suddenly flustered again.
The Fool laughed and gave her waist a little squeeze. “Ah, but we’re all liars in our own way.”
It was in that moment that her ankle took it upon itself to roll, causing Delia to lose what little grace she had retained under his heated stare and stumble. He caught her, of course; where else would she have fallen except into the Fool’s arms? She shot her feet a glare.
“An anomaly in otherwise exceptional natural rhythm,” he chuckled.
Delia broke the embrace and stepped back, smoothing her hands over her dress. “Yeah, well, heels don’t really contribute to natural rhythm, do they?”
Nor does champagne, a glass-and-a-half of which coursed through her body.
“No, I suppose they don’t.” The Fool clasped his hands behind his back, his bells tinkling when he nodded down at her feet. “They were designed for men originally. Heels.”
Back then men probably weren’t wearing stilettos. Delia offered him a small smile, all the attention on her feet reminding her of the blisters that were starting to ache.
“You’re just a treasure trove of interesting information, aren’t you?” she mused.
Their eyes met quickly, and she noted some of the laughter had disappeared. While he smiled, there was a seriousness in his eye that set her on edge—but also, in a way, that deeply thrilled her.
“Did you enjoy the gardens?”
She shrugged, acutely aware that they were standing, not dancing, in the middle of the crowded dance floor.
“From what little I saw… the hotel really outdid themselves.”
“You should see it from above,” he said, taking her hand and threading his fingers through hers. “There are little lights all the way down to the creek, straight into the ravine. Quite beautiful.”
Delia tore her gaze away from their clasped hands, barely managing a, “Yeah, I bet.”
“You should see it from my balcony,” the Fool remarked.
She met his stare. In that moment, his charming old world façade fell away. He was just another hot guy with great lines—looking to screw a girl at a party. She pressed her lips together, holding back her smile as a flush of desire washed over her. Because why not? After all, he was a gorgeous man, and he’d put a lot of effort into this…whatever they were doing.
Besides, Delia always enjoyed the occasional noteworthy one-night stand—and the Fool seemed like he would be beyond noteworthy.
“That’s a really smooth line,” she said with a laugh, not wanting him to think she was agreeing because she’d fallen for his charms, “but I wouldn’t mind seeing one of these rooms.”
He brought her hand to his lips, but rather than kissing the top, he gently turned it over and pressed his lips to her palm—which she hoped wasn’t coated in nervous-excited perspiration.
The Fool grinned as their clasped hands fell back between them. “I’ll be sure to give you a very thorough tour.”
F O U R
The Fool wasn’t wrong about the garden being even more spectacular from his balcony. The gardens were beautiful—better than anything she’d seen thus far. Tiny strings of lights twinkled far into the ravine, beyond the gentle rushing waters of the creek, whose shore was dotted with flickering torches.
Delia had taken the Fool’s sentiment as a cheesy pick-up line initially, figuring it was a semi-smooth way to lure a woman to his room. However, as she stood there, her hands on the thick stone railing, the chilly wind tickling her skin and rustling her hair, she wondered if it hadn’t entirely been a ploy.
The hedge maze also had lighting throughout, and she occasionally spotted figures moving through the intricate array of corridors. From her spot on the fourth floor, it was like looking at a little city. While the crowds had thinned, likely to retire to their rooms or to venture into the ravine in search of a little privacy, the hustle and bustle continued well into the late hours of the night—or possibly the early hours of the morning. As it were, she had no idea what time it was, and as she stood there, serene and composed, overlooking the gorgeous setting, she realized she didn’t care. Her mission to find Claudia had been a bust, which meant the night belonged to Delia again—Delia and the Fool, apparently.
She heard him approaching before she felt him; those damn bells were a huge giveaway. As his hands smoothed around her waist, she shifted around in his arms and went for the mask, unable to stand the jingling that sounded at the slightest movement.
“Don’t you like my mask?” he asked as her hands wandered up his chest, along his shoulders, and eventually found what they were looking for at the back of his head. Silken ties kept the enormous thing in place, and she hastily undid them, all the while shooting him an unimpressed look. He chuckled, then dipped his head down when she finally worked out of the knot.
The elegant gold and purple creation slipped from his face easily enough, and Delia set it aside, careful to balance it on the stone railing—as much as she wanted it to take a tumble over the edge, she assumed it was an expensive purchase.
She shouldn’t have been surprised that he was exceptionally handsome. After all, everything she’d seen so far hinted that he was some rich model who probably made a living brooding in front of the camera, but her breath still caught in her throat when she faced him. The blueness of his eyes was heightened without all the other colours around them, their intensity even more unnerving. He had a pair of sharp cheekbones that detracted from the harsh lines of his jaw, which seemed less boxy now with the mask gone.
Unable to help herself, Delia reached up and ran a finger over his features, tracing them, burning them into her memory through touch and sight. The Fool stood still as she continued her cautious study, watching her with those bright eyes, unfazed that she wanted to explore him. Her cheeks flamed when her finger lingered on his bottom lip, which had captured her stare too, and she cleared her throat as her hands fell back to his chest. He was solid as he pressed against her—hard and heavy without being overbearing.
Without a word, his fingers worked their way through her hair, and moments later her mask joined his on the balcony’s railing. She blinked, suddenly shy, and looked everywhere but his eyes. It was foolish of her to take it off, she knew that, but at this point it was safe to say that she was off-duty. The shyness passed soon enough, and Delia soon found herself interested in those lips again, her gaze shifting from them to his eyes.
It was just so strange. At bars and clubs, touching a guy she was interested in was a totally normal phenomenon. Yet here, with the Fool, the slightest brush of skin-against-skin felt beyond intimate—dangerous even. She couldn’t blame it on the champagne, as much as she wanted to; she’d had way drunker nights with Kain and the other hunters, and she’d done far more sordid things with men she’d said less to over the course of a night.
It wasn’t the alcohol that made her tremble with fear, with excitement—it was the Fool.
She shook her head; it was about time she put a name to the face.
“So,” she said, tilting her head back to meet those unsettling eyes, “have I earned the right to know your name?”
His lip twitched almost in an amused sort of way before he shook his head and brushed the hair from her face, his fingers grazing her skin. “I’m afraid not.”
Delia looked away, her eyes shifting up to his forehead instead so the Fool wouldn’t see how his response stung her. It shouldn’t have hurt; what did a name matter? Given the nature of the night, she probably wouldn’t even see him come tomorrow. Yet she wanted to know. She wanted to wrap her tongue around the syllables as she murmured it in his ear later. Her mind danced with dangerous images of what would accompany such an act, their hands everywhere, his lips on her neck.
“Tell me about yourself, Delia.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and she briefly wondered if he saw the irony: he wouldn’t even offer her his name, not even a fake one, and here he was asking her to cut herself open and bleed her secrets. Nope. Not tonight, Fool.
“I have brown hair,” she said, feeling the tension in her back as it arched over the railing somewhat, the Fool leaning in. “I’m wearing a green dress. I thought a masquerade garden party was a stupid theme for tonight.”
“Didn’t the masks add an air of mystery? Most let themselves go, be truly who they are when they think no one can see their faces.”
“I think I missed the memo there.”
Delia gestured to her nearly sheer mask, half-wishing she’d worn something a little more solid. The Fool’s bright eyes danced across her face, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a grin again.
“Yes, but I so enjoyed seeing your face.”
He was close now, so close she felt his breath on her skin, warming her somewhat parted lips.
“So why don’t I get to know your name?” she asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper as her fingertips pressed against his hard chest. “Are you married or something?”
The Fool chuckled. “No.”
“Well?” She cocked her head to the side, trying very hard not to stare at his lips, though it was even harder to hold his stare. She felt them in her bones—those eyes—creeping right down to the marrow.
The Fool glanced elsewhere for a moment, seemingly trying to hold back a smile.
“It’ll be a tale for a later time, perhaps,” he said.
Her mouth quirked upward. “Oh, so there’s going to be another time then—”
Delia drew in a soft inhale when he dipped his head down and brushed his lips against hers. There were no sparks, no fireworks, but it was nice—soft, maybe a little tentative. Eyes fluttering closed, she brought her hand up to cup his face, intensifying the pressure between them. The Fool’s grip tightened around her, but he was the one to pull back first.
The fireworks came then, not from the kiss, but from the look in those blue eyes. Her stomach knotted and a little tremor of excitement shuddered through her body as she basked in the intensity of his stare. Letting out a shaky breath himself, the Fool brushed his knuckles against her cheek, though it seemed like he was holding back, restraining himself even. She wasn’t the kind to play coy—never had been when it came to the opposite sex. Taking it upon herself, Delia pushed up on the tips of her toes and stole her second kiss from the Fool, her hands fisting in his shirt.
There was no coyness this time, no hesitation. Their lips parted the second they touched, and she bit back a moan as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, radiating a dominant energy he’d kept hidden before. That little tremor of excitement all but exploded into a full-blown quake, making her knees weak, her cheeks flush, her sex ache. Subtlety launched itself right off that damn balcony the second she shamelessly arched her body against him, desperate for the friction, a flutter of twisted pleasure coursing through her when she rubbed against his cock.
He was hard, eager—his prior tentativeness must have been an act, because with the way he kissed her now, she couldn’t imagine him as the timid type. The Fool seemed to take what he wanted now that he had permission, fisting his hand in her hair, pulling her closer, deepening their kiss.
The Fool hoisted her up and spun them around with a strong arm, turning her back to the room. Again he was the one to break this kiss, but this time it came with slight shove to
her hips. A little wobbly in her heels and knees on the verge of buckling, she used her arms to steady herself. The fairy lights in the garden below illuminated the night, and the Fool prowled toward her, his face encased in shadows. Fleetingly her nerves tugged at her, but she quickly smiled when she sensed his game.
Chest heaving with every breath she took, Delia moved back each time he stepped toward her. Her heel stuck briefly when she crossed the boundary between the balcony and the hotel room, but he caught her. Like a wolf snagging the flailing deer, the Fool scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder, laughing when she squealed.
She’d been in this compromising position before—many times—but usually there was an exercise mat below and an impatient sparring partner nearby. This time, she found herself tossed onto a plush king-sized bed, the Fool handling her like she weighed nothing. She sunk into the mattress, softness nuzzling her skin as the Fool towered over her at the end of the bed. He watched her for a moment, his arms by his side, and when her gaze darted to his hand, it fisted and relaxed. His steadiness was strangely alluring.
Propped up on her elbows, Delia watched him carefully as he reached out and gripped her leg by the ankle, then raised it. His lips pursed, and seconds later he pulled off her shoe and tossed it aside. The left shoe soon joined its other half, and the Fool tutted at her.
“Impractical things,” he said, voice tinged with a sultry lowness as he let her leg fall back to the bed.
Delia swallowed hard, her body aching for him to touch it again. “They make my legs look good.” She placed the tips of her toes by his knee, then wandered slowly up his thigh, gasping when he caught her ankle again and yanked her toward the end of the bed.
“Your legs look good without those awful shoes,” he murmured, his hands trailing along her smooth calves, then up to the hem of her dress. She bit back a grin as a look of annoyance flashed across his face when he couldn’t roll her dress up like he wanted. The fabric was too tight, too snug around her thighs and hips, once more reminding her of the impracticality of the outfit.