“But people try. Next thing you know, someone will make an app with a sign that says taxi on your phone screen, and you hold it up to hail one.”
“I think someone did make that. Also, I didn’t fund it,” she says, laughing, as the bartender slides me a champagne.
“I didn’t either.”
She runs one hand along a wing full of money. “I only fund the best and brightest ideas with my Monopoly money.” Her voice turns slightly more serious. “Do you get pitched on apps a lot?”
I take a drink of the bubbly. “I get pitched on everything all the time.”
She nods. “That must be par for the course, being a VC and all.”
I part my lips to speak, to tell her I’m not a VC. But I flash back to the racquetball game, to the face-lift suggestion from my sister. If this angel thinks I’m a VC, that means my face-lift is working. My costume is doing what I want it to do—it’s making it possible for me to be me. To have a conversation as Flynn Parker the guy, not as Flynn Parker the multimillionaire.
She doesn’t know who I am. And I don’t correct her. “It can be.”
She nods thoughtfully then roams her gaze over my black attire. She taps her bottom lip. “Hmm. Let’s see what we have here tonight because I don’t think you’re a ninja.”
I punch the air. “Keep going.”
She studies me more closely. “You’re something mysterious. You’re trying to fly under the radar. Am I getting warmer?”
More like hot. “Yes.”
Her brow knits. “You want to go unnoticed, at least for the moment.”
I tense, hoping she’s not putting two and two together as to my identity. Absently, I raise my hand to my glasses, wondering if they give me away. But then I remember. I’m wearing my contacts tonight, something I rarely do.
She snaps her fingers. “I know! You’re a stealth start-up,” she says, using the term for a new company that’s keeping quiet.
I raise my arms in victory, a thrill racing through me. “Everyone else has guessed code ninja or SEO ninja, but you’re the first person all night to get it right. I am, indeed, a stealth start-up.”
Admittedly, donning black pants, a black shirt, and a black eye-mask might have made it challenging to guess. But then again, the angel figured it out, and all without the missing start-up button.
“Your lips gave you away.”
She recognized me from my lips? I furrow my brow behind my mask. “What do you mean?”
“Your mouth,” she says, raising her fingers dangerously near to my lips. “I could tell you weren’t a ninja because your lips aren’t covered. Ninjas cover their mouths.” I relax again since she was referring to my clothes. “Only their eyes show. But you’ve covered most of your eyes, and you’re showing only your mouth and your chin. That’s how I knew you had to be something other than a ninja.”
“I could kiss you for that,” I blurt out. I take a step back and hold up a hand. “I’m sorry. That was probably terribly inappropriate.”
A smile slowly spreads across her lips. “No, it wasn’t inappropriate. It wasn’t inappropriate at all,” she says. Something in the way she takes her time with each word tells me she wouldn’t mind being kissed. That gives me one mission and one mission only: keep talking to this angel.
But before I can ask her a question, she reaches into her purse, grabbing at something. She holds out her hand. It’s in a fist. “Is this your start-up button?”
She opens her hand to reveal a red button.
Laughing, I take it from her hand, and slip it into my pocket. “You found my start-up button. Maybe that’s why no one knew what I was. Or maybe you’re just a genius.”
“I prefer to think genius.”
“I’d offer to buy the genius a drink to keep the conversation going, but the drinks here are free . . .” I let my voice trail off, inviting her to pick up the thread if she wants to.
She smiles coyly. “I wonder if you could come up with another way to keep talking to me.”
And she wants to, so now it’s my turn. The music shifts from hipster rap to something slower, smoother. One of those songs I never know the name of but you hear on trendy TV shows before a hot couple kisses. I nod my forehead toward the speaker. “I planned that,” I say as I hold out a hand.
She laughs. “No, you didn’t.”
“But you have to admit it’s good luck, like the button. Care to dance?”
Her lips twitch in a sexy smile. “Yes, I care to dance.”
I take her hand and lead her to where the chandeliers cast patterns of light across the hardwood floors. The dance floor is surprisingly crowded, but I don’t notice who’s here since I’m not actually looking at anyone but the hazel-eyed angel. I twirl her once, and when I tug her closer, her eyes sparkle.
“You know how to dance,” she says, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I’m not just a clever costume-maker and a producer of the finest knock-knock jokes.”
She leans her head back and laughs, exposing a gorgeous throat that I want to kiss. Yes, this is instant attraction. But then, that’s exactly how some attraction can be. And, perhaps, how it should be.
“One, your costume skills need work,” she says, giving me a pointed look as we move in time to the music. “Perhaps you should enlist the help of a crafty costumer for your next ball, at least to sew on the buttons so they don’t fall off. Two, tell me a fine knock-knock joke.”
“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 s
hould 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.
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