Page 5 of The Secret Play

It was intoxicating, the way his presence seemed to fill the space around us, blocking out the rest of the room as though we were the only dancers in the ballroom.

Being so close to Red, smelling his woodsy scent, the tension I’d held onto for the past two years had faded to nothing.

We danced for what felt like hours, though it was probably only a few songs. By the time we stepped off the floor, my heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the dancing. And I could feel a warmth between my legs that told me what a turn on my body thought he was.

“Come on, let's get some air,” Red said.

I hesitated, my pulse pounding in my ears, feeling this kind of pull toward someone I didn’t even know.

But tonight wasn’t about being cautious. Tonight was about stepping out of my comfort zone, about letting myself live. Having fun.

With a mask on.

I licked my lips and watched as his eyes flickered to my mouth. My heart kicked up as I anticipated the words coming out. I hoped they came out seductively and not as a desperate blurt. “My room has a balcony. We can get plenty of air there.”

His lips parted in surprise, then spread in a playful smile. “Lead the way.”

He took my hand and led me to the elevators. When the doors closed, he grabbed my chin and lifted my face up for a kiss.

He didn’t disappoint.

Once he knew it was game on, he pressed me against the elevator wall, caging me with his arms as he kissed down my throat.

When the doors opened again, we found our way to my hotel room, the champagne still buzzing in my veins and his hand warm against mine.

I swiped my key card and we fumbled into the room, hands scrambling for clothing, mouths colliding and bruising.

I was naked before I knew it, save for my mask. He reached for that, too, but I drew back, shaking my head. “Leave the masks on.”

His mouth shaped into a wicked smirk. “As you wish.”

Once he was naked, I took a moment to memorize his body in the faint city light that poured in from the balcony, grazing every inch of him with my fingertips.

I had no idea who he was or where he came from, but his body told a story I suddenly wanted to hear in full detail.

He looked like sin wrapped in muscle—broad shoulders built for holding a woman in place, a firm chest that begged to be touched, licked, tasted.

The birthmark on his shoulder that looked like Italy.

Scars marked his skin, whispers of past battles, and I had the sudden, wicked urge to trace them with my tongue.

His body wasn’t sculpted for show; it was built for power, for endurance.

Every inch of him radiated strength, from the carved ridges of his abs to the deep-cut lines that led my gaze lower, making my breath hitch.

His waist was trim, tapering into powerful hips that promised control.

But it was his legs that really caught me—thick, solid muscle, the kind that spoke of brutal strength, of speed, of unrelenting force.

My fingers brushed over his hard glutes, aching to feel, to explore.

And then he moved. Just a shift of his stance, a flex of his fingers at his sides, but it felt deliberate—like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

His gaze caught mine, dark and knowing, a slow smirk playing on his lips. Heat pooled low in my stomach.

I still didn’t know his name. Didn’t know why his body looked like it was made for both destruction and pleasure.

But I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to find out.

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