Page 10 of Little Horrors & Deceptions

My dress clung to me like a second skin. I adjusted a strap, feeling vulnerable and raw, on full display for him. My smoky cat-eye makeup made me feel like a goddess as I glanced up at him through my lashes.

“Flattery is a dangerous game, Mr. O’Connor,” I teased, but my heart betrayed me, racing at his closeness.

“I like games,” he shot back, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “And like I said, call me Liam.”

Fuck. This was wrong. The boundary between boss and something more blurred with each step we took. I was acutely aware of every point where our bodies touched. This was a dance far more perilous than any I’d engaged in before.

The final chord of the song hummed through the room as I pulled away slightly, my head spinning from more than just the alcohol. “I need another drink,” I murmured, feeling Liam’s eyes on me as we edged through the crowd.

“Of course,” he replied.

I didn’t see any waiters close, so I made my way to the bar, snatching up a candy corn cocktail. I tipped it back, eager for the sweet burn to loosen my shoulders. It betrayed me, the liquid rebellion veering down the wrong pipe. My body convulsed with a sharp cough, and I spun, decorum be damned. A spray of festive orange and white splattered across the front of my dress and onto Liam. His suit—a casualty in my cocktail crossfire—now bore the abstract art of my embarrassment, right down to his crotch.

“Fuck.” I gasped between coughs, my face blazing hotter than any burn of alcohol. “I’m so sorry.”

Liam stood frozen for a breath, then his lips quirked, not quite a smile. “It’s just a suit, Jade. Are you okay?”

My throat burned, my pride seared. The intimacy between us on the dance floor had left an ache in its wake, one that I had wanted to forget about with alcohol, but embarrassmentapparently did the trick. No amount of spiked candy corn could’ve ruined the moment better than that. Liam’s reflexes were swift, his hand darting out to snag a handful of napkins from the nearby table. He led me as he cut through the thickening crowd, our escape less graceful than our dance earlier. His fingers grazed mine, the touch sending a jolt despite the chaos.

Gods, this man.

“Here,” he said, pressing the napkins into my hands as we found refuge in a dimly lit alcove. The shadows felt like a cloak, hiding the stain spreading across my dress and the blotches marring his crotch.

Stop looking at his crotch, Oli.

“Are you okay?” His voice was a low rumble, concern threading through the words as he asked me again. I cleared my throat, something far more dangerous bubbling in me. I needed to get away from this man.

“Yeah, my ego’s just bruised.” I managed a weak chuckle, but it sounded hollow even to my ears. Our eyes met, and his gaze held weight. I focused on blotting the mess on my chest, trying not to think about the warmth radiating from him or the scent of his cologne that lingered in the air. Or just how fucking close he was to me. “I’ll be fine,” I added, my voice a little too sharp, betraying my frustration. “My dress, not so much. I’m going to have to head home.” I started to turn away from him to leave.

“Wait.” Liam’s hand rested lightly on my arm, stopping me. “Come with me. I’m sure I have something here you can change into.”

I should just go home and try to forget all about splattering an orange cocktail all over, well… his cock… but I followed him through the throngs of guests and then through all the scary rooms of the haunted mansion before we finally made it to another set of stairs on the opposite side of the building.

We ascended the narrow staircase tucked in the shadowy corner off the hall of horrors. Its creaks and groans matched our every step, and part of me wondered if he didn’t fix it because he wanted to know when someone was coming. The second floor was quieter, the din from the party below muffled by thick walls. He led me down a dimly lit hall. My heels clicked against the wood. At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door, revealing a space that caught me off-guard.

It was a studio apartment, compact but stylish. Then the realization dawned on me. He lived here. All this time, I’d assumed he had his own place, but I guessed it made sense—Dead Man’s Mansion was his home.

The room was a mix of modern and vintage. To my right, an exposed brick wall ran the length of the room, its rough texture offset by the smooth, sleek lines of a midcentury modern couch in a deep forest green. A large flat screen adorned the wall above the fireplace in front of it.

A few steps farther in on the left was the kitchen area, with its stainless-steel appliances and clean white subway tiles. A small, round table nestled in the corner softened the starkness, where an antique candelabra stood proudly in the center, its black candles burned down halfway.

On the wall above the couch hung a huge vintage Ouija board. It was spooky and beautiful and completely my kinda vibe. Across from the couch, the mantle over the small fireplace was crowded with an array of curiosities: an old raven skull encased in glass, a set of blackened, twisted candles, and a small, framed print of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” The fireplace itself didn’t look functional, but he had filled it with a string of orange lights and faux cobwebs, creating a cozy, eerie glow.

Last but not least, a giant bed sat unmade in the back corner across from the kitchen with two small end tables on either side.Everything in here matched my love of all things spooky. It was just more… organized.

He gave me a curious look, a hint of apology in those piercing green eyes. “Sorry about the mess,” he murmured, although there was little to apologize for. I could feel the shift in our dynamic, the lines between boss and employee blurring as I stood amidst his home.

“Nothing to apologize for,” I said, looking for whatever he was referring to. What? The unmade bed? That was a rookie mess.

Liam walked over to what seemed to be a closet. His hands moved deftly, rummaging through the clothes. He pulled out an oversized shirt, the color a deep maroon that made me think of autumn leaves and rich red wine. It was his shirt, and the idea of wearing it sent an odd thrill through me, as if by slipping it over my head, I’d be enveloped in a part of him—his scent, his presence.

What the hell was wrong with me?

“Here,” he said, holding it out to me. “I figured you could wear this and just cinch the waist with the little leather belt you have on now.”

I took it, the fabric soft and slightly warm from being in the tight space of the closet. He wasn’t wrong—the length was decent enough. My fingers grazed over the material, imagining it on me, a private piece of Liam wrapping around my frame.

As I was looking at the shirt, Liam began unbuttoning his own right there in front of me. The smooth confidence in his movements was unnerving. More skin was revealed with each undone button, broad shoulders and hard muscles coming into view. He shrugged it off, and for a moment, I was caught like a deer in headlights, gawking at him.

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