The guy shakes his head once, his way of saying,No. No, I shouldn’t go, or no, he won’t let me go? Either way, it doesn’t really matter. He’s the only thing I see.
He lifts a hand, and I suck in a hard breath as that hand moves to my face. I assume his skin will be cold from having just been outside, but I’m proven wrong when the backs of his fingers trail down my cheek and along my jaw. He’s warm. He’s very, very warm.
My cheek tingles where he touches me, and as his fingers fall to my chin, I can’t breathe. I’m holding my breath for a reason I can’t begin to describe, lost in the shadows on his face and the innate feeling that I know him.
I know him. I know I know him. This is killing me.
He doesn’t pull that hand away once his fingers reach my chin. No, that hand falls to my neck, his fingertips trailing down to my collarbone, which he traces so lightly I can hardly feel it. The dress I wear isn’t overly skimpy; the only reason I agreed to wear it is because it covers most of my chest. That doesn’t seem to stop him, though, because after he traces my collarbone, his hand continues to fall lower.
My lungs are darn near ready to burst when that hand of his falls to my chest. It’s like… it’s like he’s taking his time, exploring me. Like this masked man has waited his entire life to be right where he is and nothing and no one can make him rush.
He steps closer to me the same moment his hand lifts back to my face, and his thumb runs over my bottom lip in a gesture that is way too intimate to be between two strangers. I can almost taste the tension in the air, the palpable desire radiating off him.
And what’s even stranger is I think I feel it, too.
This guy… who is he?
He takes his time in running his thumb over my bottom lip, and then he drops his hand to my side. Before I know what he’sdoing, that hand travels even lower, and all the while he watches me from the shadows in his mask.
Is he waiting for me to tell him to stop? I don’t know if I could. Everything is jumbled in my head right now. It’s like I can’t think straight, can barely see straight; it’s all him, whoever he is. My mysterious devil for the night.
His hand drops, and though I don’t bend my neck to see what he’s doing, I can feel it. He toys with the bottom of the dress, and after another second, he pulls the front of it up just enough as he leans even closer to me. The entire world is blocked out by him. I don’t know if anyone’s watching us or if everyone is simply too enraptured in their own lives to pay attention to the two strangers near the window.
You know what? It doesn’t matter. I actually don’t care, as surprising as it might be. I am caught in this guy’s web; I don’t even know who the heck he is, and I don’t care. My gut is telling me that I am right where I’m supposed to be, and that moving in any way, that telling him to stop, would be the biggest mistake I could possibly make tonight.
His shadowed gaze is on me as his hand goes someplace a stranger’s hand shouldn’t. With my dress bunched up, his hand follows the curve of my body outside of the tights, and though he doesn’t touch my bare skin, he still sets a fire burning deep within me, flames that will only grow at this rate.
I can’t even stop to think about what I’m doing, what I’m letting this masked man do to me—in public, no less, where any and everyone could see. My mind is a jumbled mess, and I don’t feel like myself.
He doesn’t stop there, of course. After running his hand above the crux of my tights, he doesn’t drop his hand away and step back, allow my dress to fall and cover my midsection. Oh, no. He’s apparently so close to his destination, so why would the masked man stop now?
His hand glides to the band of my tights, sliding down until his fingers come in contact with my panties… and then those fingers dip beneath those, too. The very moment his fingers graze the sides of my clit, I suck in a hard breath, my lungs about to burst, just like that.
A rumble of appreciation leaves the masked man’s chest, and I swear I feel that sound in my core. Such a low, guttural, animalistic sound, like he’s finally found what he’s been searching for his whole life and he lost his will to speak. Like he can only grunt and growl out his pleasure. It’s hot. It’s a sound I wouldn’t mind hearing again.
His fingers make themselves at home around my clit, pinching and stroking, and all the while he pushes up against me, blocking out the rest of the party with his height and his black ensemble. His plain mask is burned into my memory, but no matter how hard or how long I gaze up at him, I can’t see the color of his eyes. The shadows are too thick, the light behind him at the worst possible angle.
I try to keep my eyes open, to keep staring up at him while he touches me, but eventually I can’t. It becomes too much. The way he touches me, how my body responds. It’s like this man has a secret key straight to my soul, and tonight he decided to finally use it.
And he’s using it well.
Oh, God, is he using it well.
My body is at a fever pitch almost immediately. My lungs can barely inhale before they feel the need to sharply exhale. Every single part of me feels hotter than ever, and I want to claw this white dress off me, tell the man to peel the tights all the way down my legs, and order him to take me somewhere private, where we could really get into things.
Who am I? Who did this guy turn me into when I wasn’t looking? That’s not a thought the old Wren would ever have, butit’s the only thought that comes to my mind as the masked man plays my body like a fiddle.
After a minute or so, my breath catches. A pressure builds in my lower stomach. Every single movement of his fingers around my clit threatens to send me into space. I can’t push it off, can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. It demands recognition, the pleasure boiling inside of me, hotter than ever.
The moment the orgasm rips out of me, I feel weightless, but at the same time, my knees wobble. If it wasn’t for the hand between my legs, I might’ve fallen to the floor as the searing hot pleasure surges through me. As it is, it takes everything in me to not cry out and make what we’re doing completely obvious to anyone nearby. I have to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from making any sounds.
The orgasm is hot, the kind that takes hold of you by the throat and refuses to let go—mostly because the masked man doesn’t stop there. No, he keeps going, keeps touching me, keeps stimulating my clit like he has nowhere else to be, and I am absolute putty in his grip. At this point, he can do whatever he wants to me, and I will have no self-restraint to tell him to stop.
Stop. We shouldn’t do this. I don’t even know who you are.
All those things and more I could say, and yet I already know if I try to, they’ll all fall flat and sound like lies. I don’t want to stop. Even if the strange familiarity I feel turns out to be wrong and I don’t know who this guy is, I can’t say I care one bit. It feels too darn good.
There is nothing on my mind, nothing but the smoldering pleasure coursing through every vein in my body as the masked man continues to touch me. My clit swells under the attention, and if anything, it’s primed and ready for another orgasm, one the man must be chasing, because I lose myself to another release not too long after the first.