“You wear the velvet as if it were made for you.” The voice came from the left, deep and with a slight rasp in the throat. Clara turned around. A man stood in the shadow of a colonnade, his mask of black lace revealing only his eyes—gray like a winter sky. The ball around her, with its hundred shimmering lights, suddenly seemed far away.
She tilted her head. “And you wear your curiosity so openly that I can almost taste it.” A smile played on her lips, hidden behind the golden half-mask that embraced her face like a second mouth.
He stepped closer. His suit was dark blue, almost black, the collar open. No tie. A narrow silver ring glinted on his little finger. “May I invite you to a glass of wine? Or do you prefer something stronger?” His hand, which he extended to her, was slender, the fingers long, the nails short and well-groomed.
Clara placed her hand in his. The touch was a small shock—static, as if two opposite poles had met. “Whiskey. Neat.”
He led her through the crowd, past shimmering gowns and grinning harlequins, to a niche behind a heavy, red velvet curtain. A small table, two leather armchairs, a bottle of Macallan, and two glasses stood ready. As if he had expected her.
“You plan ahead,” she said, sinking into the armchair and crossing her legs. The slit of her dress revealed her thigh, bare skin up to her hip.
His gaze lingered there a second too long. “I like it when chance finds me. But I help it along.” He poured, handed her the glass. His fingers brushed hers, and again that little spark.
She drank. The whiskey burned pleasantly in her throat, spreading warmth in her chest. “So you’re a hunter who sets his traps?” she asked, her gaze over the rim of the glass.
He leaned back, his gray eyes fixed on her. “A hunter who waits to be hunted. I saw you as you walked through the hall. You didn’t dance, didn’t smile, didn’t speak. You observed.”
Clara set down the glass. “And that intrigued you?”
“It made me curious,” he corrected. “A woman who chooses the role of spectator at a ball is looking for something specific. Or she has something to hide.”
“Maybe both,” she admitted. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “And what are you looking for, if I may ask?”
His smile was slow, like molten gold. “A story I won’t forget. One that can’t be put into words.”
The air between them seemed to thicken, grow heavier. Clara felt her pulse quicken. “Then maybe we should stop talking.”
He set his glass down next to hers, the movement fluid, unhurried. Then he stood up, offered her his hand. “Come.”
She took his hand, let herself be pulled up. His fingers closed firmly around hers, the warmth of his palm penetrating her like a promise. He led her out of the niche, through a narrow door she hadn’t noticed before, and up a spiral staircase. The music faded, the voices grew quieter. They climbed two floors until he stopped in front of a dark wooden door. A key turned in the lock, the door swung open.
The room was small, almost bare. A wide bed with white sheets, a nightstand with a candle, a window overlooking the parking lot behind the building. No chandelier, no ornate furniture. Just the essentials.
“I didn’t know if I’d end up up here,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “But I wanted to be prepared.”
Clara let go of his hand, stepped to the window. Below, the headlights of cars glittered. She heard him close the door behind her, and the bolt quietly click into place. A soft click that locked the world outside.
She turned around. He stood two steps away, his arms loose at his sides. He had taken off his mask—it lay on the nightstand. His face was narrow, cheekbones high, mouth a clear line. He was older than her, maybe mid-forties, but his eyes had something young, impetuous.
“What’s your name?” she asked, though she knew it didn’t matter.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, exactly as she had expected. “Call me what you want.”
She laughed softly. “Then I’ll call you ‘The Stranger.'”
“Good. And you? Should I call you ‘The Woman in Velvet’?”
“That sounds like a novel.” She took a step toward him. “But yes. For this night, I am that.”
He came toward her, until only a breath lay between them. She smelled his cologne—cedar and something smoky. And beneath it, the scent of his skin, warm and alive.
“May I touch you?” he asked, his voice now rougher.
“If I may touch you too.”
His hand rose, stroked her cheek, along the edge of her mask. “May I take this off?” he whispered.
She nodded. His fingers loosened the band, and the golden mask fell. She looked at him, unprotected, her face bare. His eyes darkened, pupils dilated.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “Even more beautiful without disguise.”
“Flatterer.” But she smiled as she said it.
His lips found hers. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant, as if he wanted to taste her. She opened her mouth, let his tongue in, and the kiss deepened, became more demanding. His hands slid to her neck, pulling her closer. She felt his body against hers, the heat radiating from him.
Her fingers unbuttoned his shirt, glided over his chest. The skin was smooth, the muscles beneath firm. He groaned softly as her fingertips brushed his nipples. The sound echoed inside her, making her pussy wet. She felt her nipples stiffen under the velvet dress, hard and sensitive, rubbing against the fabric.
“I want to feel you,” he whispered against her mouth. “Every inch of you.”
His hands traveled from her neck over her shoulders, sliding down the straps of her dress. The velvet slipped, revealing her bare breasts. She wore no bra. Her tits were full, with dark, hard nipples that ached for him.
“Fuck,” he murmured as he saw them. “You’re perfect.”
He leaned down, took a nipple into his mouth. His tongue circled it, first soft, then firmer. Clara gasped as his teeth gently bit down, a small pain that shot straight to her pussy. Her legs grew weak, she had to hold onto his shoulders.
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