Page 12 of Masked Seduction
It’s decadence. It’s freedom. And yet tonight, strangely, none of it stirs my blood. I’m contemplating this peculiar apathy when a soft, playful voice cuts through the hum of music.
“Well, hello there, handsome.”
Turning my head slightly, I see two women, young and stunningly beautiful. One’s dressed in deep emerald, her body lush and perfectly sculpted beneath her dress, the neckline plunging dangerously low. Her mask is emerald satin, edged in delicate gold filigree. Her companion wears black satin—slender, angular, with the elegance of a runway model and an alluring red mouth that promises pleasure. Her mask is asleek, glossy raven’s wing, feathers shimmering beneath the club lights.
“Care for some company?” the emerald beauty purrs as she steps closer. Her fingertips tease along her friend’s waist, drawing my attention to the implied offer.
“We don’t bite,” the raven-haired woman adds mischievously, a teasing smile tugging at her full lips. “Unless you’re into that.”
Under different circumstances, perhaps, I’d already have them both bent over a bed in one of the back rooms, exploring every lush curve. But tonight, something inside me resists. Neither of them moves me nearly enough.
Not the way she does.
She?
I dismiss that thought immediately.
With practiced courtesy, I lift my glass slightly, acknowledging their bold approach. “Tempting offer, ladies. But I’m not looking for company tonight.”
They exchange disappointed glances, pouting slightly. Emerald shrugs gracefully, her fingertips brushing lightly across my shoulder as she turns away. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” I echo, though my tone holds no promise.
I watch them disappear into the crowd, drawing attention elsewhere. They’ll find their thrills easily enough, without me.
Turning my gaze back to the main floor, I settle deeper into the shadows of my booth, sipping my whiskey slowly, savoring the burn down my throat.
I came here tonight seeking anonymity, distraction, and release. So why does it feel like I’m waiting for something or someone else entirely?
I scan the club judiciously, a habit of ownership. I might’ve come here to unwind, but I’m still responsible for the integrity of this place. Or I will be soon enough.
My gaze catches small details: a bouncer discreetly intervening with a guest who’s gotten overly aggressive; a bartender swiftly pouring top-shelf bourbon for a regular; the subtle repositioning of security guards maintaining order and decorum amid the lustful chaos.
Near the bar, a couple commands an admiring audience. The woman’s back arches as she grips the countertop, her masked partner moving languidly between her spread thighs, mouth teasingly out of sight beneath her skirt. Her breathless moans blend perfectly with the rhythm of the music, a decadent melody of pleasure weaving through the room.
My pulse should quicken at such sights but instead, my mind drifts stubbornly back to Jenna. Those defiant eyes, that sensual mouth, the way she boldly recited explicit details about this place without a blush or flinch.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I down the last sip of whiskey, savoring the smooth burn, and motion sharply for another. My irritation rises. I came here to indulge, yet no woman holds my interest tonight. Jenna’s got my head twisted, an unwelcome distraction that's proving damn hard to shake.
Just as my frustration reaches its peak, I spot her.
Standing at the bar is a woman with curves made for sin, wrapped in a skintight black cocktail dress that hugs her voluptuous figure with mouthwatering perfection. Her hair is a cascade of rich auburn, tumbling in soft waves over bare shoulders.
The mask she wears is distinctive—a delicate creation of midnight velvet embroidered with intricate silver filigree, small black gems sparkling around the eyes. Her friend stands beside her in a sleek white dress, a shimmering gold mask accentuating her slender, graceful form.
My eyes linger on the redhead. Her body language tells a clear story with the nervous way she shifts her weight, fingers restlessly tracing the edge of her cocktail glass.
First-timer, I’m certain of it.
A wicked thrill of possessiveness soars within, the blood rushing straight to my cock. Finally, someone who ignites me, someone who pulls at me from across the room.
When she turns slightly, taking a hesitant sip of her drink, I freeze. My eyes narrow sharply behind my mask as I scrutinize her profile—the soft line of her jaw, the lush curve of her lips.
Impossible.
The mask might fool a casual observer, but not me. I’ve spent countless hours studying her face, her body, her every move, whether I want to admit it or not.
