Page 27 of Unmasked

“Okay.” Corinna looked at him strangely. It wasn’t like he’d ever mentioned “dropping in” on Lainey before. But Corinna’s stomach rumbled and she huffed. “Can we go now? If I don’t eat soon I’m going to turn into Bitchzilla.”

“I definitely don’t want that.” He pushed up from his chair and pocketed the compact.

Tonight he’d call in to see Lainey and confirm if his fears were true—that he’d found the redhead right when he needed her, but that she was definitely someone he shouldn’t have slept with.

* * *

Lainey stood in her tiny kitchen, cradling a mug of coffee, and quietly tried not to lose her shit. This week had been a complete fucking disaster. First, she’d had zero luck in tracking down her grandmother’s compact. The limo company had been sweet and checked multiple times for her, but to no avail. Then she’d dropped her phone into a sink full of water and now the damn thing wouldn’t turn on. And, like the cherry on top of a giant fuck-you sundae, Imogen’s friend refused to accept the masquerade mask back because of the broken strap. Which had meant forking out more money she couldn’t afford to buy a broken mask.

Frustration bubbled like lava in her veins. It was karma, for sure. Karma for tricking Damian and keeping secrets from Corinna. And to what end?

“Only the best sex of my entire life,” Lainey grumbled.

And not the best sex in the way people tended to fling those words around. It was literally the best. It was the Ferrari of sex. The Chanel of sex. The kind of sex that people scoffed at in romance novels and labelled unrealistic, because nobody could come like that on the first try with a new partner, right?

Wrong.

It was like Damian had been in her head every time she’d reached between her legs in the dead of night, thinking about what she would do with him if only she had the chance. Like he’d saved up all her fantasies and distilled them into one perfect, never-to-be-repeated experience.

And instead of feeling over the moon that she’d gotten exactly what she wanted, she felt bloody miserable, because one taste wasn’t enough. Nowhere near it.

She twirled her hair around her finger and startled herself with the bright red hue. She still wasn’t used to it. Every time she walked past a mirror she gave herself a fright. But the longer she wore the vibrant colour, the more she liked it.

A knock at the front door snapped Lainey out of her worries and she put her coffee down before going to answer it. “Hello?” she said as she swung the door open.

Time seemed to slow as her brain tried to catch up with what she was seeing. Damian McKnight, standing on her doorstep, looking hot and pissed as hell. He wore a charcoal suit with a white shirt and baby-blue tie, which brought out the subtle blue tones in his grey eyes. But the soft colours did nothing to lessen the impact of his ice-cold stare and the hard set of his jaw. His nostrils flared as his gazed raked over her.

Oh my God, he knows.

“Uh, hi, Damian.” She swallowed. “Are you looking for Corinna? She’s not here right now.”

“I wasn’t looking for her,” he said. The words squeezed out between his teeth, the razor-sharp edge of his anger palpable in the night air. “I came to see you.”

“Oh.” She stepped back and held the door, unsure what to say.

Maybe he doesn’t know and you’re being paranoid. Perhaps he’s had a bad day...

He stalked past her and made his way to the kitchen. Everything about his movement screamed agitation—from the stiffness in his shoulders to the fists bunched by his sides. He wasn’t saying a word and Lainey had to fight the urge to fill the silence, because she was bound to say the wrong thing.

They were in a nonverbal stand-off. Damian leaned against the counter, stuffing his hands into his pockets, encouraging her eyes to drop down to that general area. Like she needed help in the gawking department. His legs were crossed at the ankles, showing off a pair of expensive black shoes. The position could have easily been mistaken for a relaxed stance, but Lainey wasn’t a fool. She knew he was about to strike.

She dropped down into one of her rickety dining chairs and waited, sucking on the inside of her cheek to keep the words from spilling out.

“Haven’t you got anything to say to me?” His tone was frigid. “A confession, perhaps?”

Hell, he made Frosty the Snowman look warm and fuzzy.

“Fine,” he said after a few beats of silence. “Have it your way.”

He pulled one hand out of his pocket and placed her grandmother’s compact on the table in front of her. She snatched it up, her breath releasing in a long whoosh. Having it back in her possession made the world feel right again, but one thing was now clear: Damian knew exactly what she’d done.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her thumb stroking the embroidery. The worn threads and familiar habit soothed her.

“I want to hear you say it.”

The rough, gravelly sound of his voice flooded her with memories of their evening together—it was so similar to the dirty way he’d growled into her ear. A tremor rippled through her, warming her body from the inside out, almost as if anticipating a repeat performance. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not since he looked as though he was about to strangle her.

She sucked in a breath. “Why? It won’t change things.”

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