Page 28 of Masked Seduction
As we make our way toward the front, I catch myself glancing back over my shoulder, toward the hall of doors. Searching for... I don’t even know. A hint of him. A shadow. A familiar stance in the crowd.
But I don’t see him anywhere. Nothing but lights and strangers.
“Is it weird that I feel kinda bad for leaving him?” I ask. “As far as I know, he’s still sleeping in there.”
Claire arches a brow. “You mean the guy who railed you into a religious experience?”
I give her a look. “He was very… attentive.”
“Oh, I’m sure!” She laughs as we step into the cool, desert night air. “But let’s not pretend this was a romantic weekend getaway. It’s a sex club. If he wakes up all sad and alone, maybe he should’ve remembered where the fuck he was before falling asleep.”
I grin, but there’s something bittersweet blooming in my chest. Like I left behind a piece of myself in that room.
Or maybe he took it.
The Uber ride back is quiet for about ten seconds before Claire turns on me like a lion with a gazelle.
“Okay, spill.”
“Nope,” I say, gazing out the window like I’m suddenly fascinated by streetlights.
“Don’t you dare go all coy on me, Jenna Rose. I want details. Positions. Dialogue. How big was he?”
“Jesus,” I laugh, glancing at the driver. “Claire.”
She leans in. “Fine, just tell me he was hot.”
“He was. He was also older,” I say. “Maybe forties. But definitely unfairly hot. Big. Strong. Confident. Knew exactly what he was doing.”
Claire lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love that for you.”
By the time we pull up in front of my apartment building, the nervous buzz is gone, replaced with a warm hum in my chest, thighs, and everywhere else.
I hug her tightly before slipping out. “Thank you. Really. Tonight was more than I expected and just what I needed.”
Claire winks. “You’re not off the hook, by the way. I want a full debrief tomorrow.”
I laugh, flipping her off as I shut the car door.
My building is dark and quiet when I step inside. Boring compared to what I just left—no scent of sex curling through the air.
It’s home.
I kick off my shoes, unzip my dress, and pour myself a small glass of wine while I stand barefoot in my kitchen, trying to process what the hell just happened.
I close my eyes.
His hands flash in my mind. Large, strong, gripping my hips as he pulled me against him. The way he guided my mouth to his, fingers threaded through my hair like he needed the anchor. His voice—low and dark, speaking Russian when he got close, too far gone to pretend anymore.
A single word, whispered into the crook of my neck.
Malyshka.
I take a sip of wine, but it doesn’t help. My brain won’t stop connecting the dots I don’t want to see.
The accent. The size. The hands. The way he moved—controlled, precise, powerful.
Malyshka.
