CHAPTER SIX
LAINEY COULDN’T BELIEVE her luck. Damian had practically done all the work for her—the whole thing about her being his fake fiancée meant they had to spend the evening together. And since he was the one who’d made that happen, she’d been able to relax and enjoy his company.
Or, more accurately, quietly freak out and enjoy his company.
They’d danced, eaten tiny, fanciful foods; she watched him bid on the silent auctions and talk to people whose names she knew from the papers. There’d been a lot of business talk, too. But he continued to introduce her as his fiancée, Ariel, and so that meant playing the supportive, doting future Mrs. McKnight. Of course, they’d had to explain the ruse to his friends, who’d eyed her with suspicion.
Now they were in the ballroom, and Lainey had her arms looped around his neck while his hand pressed into her lower back. It wasn’t dancing, per se. More like swaying in time with the music. But Lainey could have died right that second and been the happiest person on earth. Even in the whole Milky Way. This was the night of her dreams...but hopefully with a dirtier ending.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” he asked.
“What?” She tilted her face up to his.
“We need to leave together.” He’d bowed his head, his lips brushing her ear as the gravelly words made her knees go weak. “In case people are watching.”
“Of course.”
Damian held her close, his hand smoothing over her lower back, exposed by her dress. “No protest? I could be anyone.”
“So could I.” Her fingertips found his jaw, tracing the hard angle softened by smooth skin. “But that’s the whole point of a masquerade ball. We get to be anyone we want for a night.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I was hoping to get swept off my feet.” She grinned. “But a fake proposal will have to do.”
“If memory serves me correctly, I literally did sweep you off your feet. I might even have saved your foot.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His forehead pressed against hers, mask to mask. Beads brushed her skin as she tilted up to him, her lips hovering a hairbreadth from his.
“What did you mean, Ariel? You wanted a man who was going to whisk you away to his castle and turn you into a princess?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I wanted a man who was going to treat me like a queen right now. A fantasy for one night—that’s all I want.”
Something stormy and electric shifted in his eyes, his lips tightening. But Damian wasn’t a man to hide his feelings. His hands shifted lower, cupping her behind and pressing her flush against him. He was harder than an algebra exam.
“One night?” he growled in her ear. “And nothing more?”
“I promise to turn into a pumpkin at twelve on the dot.” She dented her lower lip with her teeth, desperate to rub against him—to get the friction her body cried out for—but trying not to draw attention to them any more than they already had. This obviously wasn’t the kind of dancing the Carmina Ball was used to. “Then you’ll never hear from me again.”
“That’s really what you want?”
No. She wanted what he’d said—for him to whisk her away and make her his. For that proposal to be real. For the lust in his eyes to be something more. But Lainey was a pragmatist, if nothing else. And she knew there was no point wanting what she couldn’t have.
“Yes,” she lied. “That’s exactly what I want.”
His hands dropped suddenly and she stepped back, her body raging at the loss of contact. Her need chanted like a drumbeat in her bloodstream: more, more, more. The rushing sound in her ears drowned out the rest of the ballroom, her focus narrowing to him. Only him.
He was like a strange man-god hybrid in his black tuxedo and mask. The curve of the design highlighted his perfect nose—aquiline and aristocratic—the black leather making him darkly handsome. His lips formed a smile that sent a tremor through her. It wasn’t friendly, wasn’t romantic or caring or any of the other smiles she’d seen in the past. It was predatory. Delicious.
“Let’s go.” He held out his hand. “Now.”
Lainey glanced around the room—the ball was coming to an end. Guests were already leaving, though the waiters still lingered with drinks on their trays. “Now?”
“Right now. I’ve done enough business for one night.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to his side, his head dropping down to her ear. “And if we don’t finish this soon, I’m liable to drag you behind one of those potted plants in the next few seconds.”
“That could be fun,” she teased.
“I don’t like being quiet, Ariel.” Each word tugged on her nerves. He was playing her like a harp. “When I’m inside you, I want to make as much noise as I can so you know how incredible you feel wrapped around my cock.”
Her breath stuttered. Holy. Freaking. Shit. Damian wasn’t a man god—he was pure sexual divinity. That one sentence had taken her from being excited and warm on the inside to drenching her lacy underwear. He was right, they had to go now. Because that potted plant was starting to look like the perfect place to be.
“Hurry up, then.” She strode away from him. “Time’s a-wasting.”
Chuckling, he followed her to the front of Patterson House. The grand foyer was a sight to behold—an intricate parquet floor gleaming under an enormous chandelier that looked like something straight out of a royal palace. Two security guards stood by the front door, but Lainey couldn’t tell if they were the ones who’d caught them on the balcony.
They joined a short queue of people leaving the building, and Lainey tapped her foot impatiently.
“Good evening, sir,” a man in a dark suit said as they reached the front of the line. “Can we get you a car or do you have one booked?”
Damian nodded. “A car would be great, thank you.”
The man stepped out onto the path that framed the circular driveway in front of the estate and raised a hand. A moment later, a black limousine appeared.
She’d never been in a limo before—never had a reason to. Her life hadn’t been littered with special occasions that required fancy dresses and fancy cars and drivers who held the door.
“After you.” Damian motioned for her to enter first.
She slid onto the seat as elegantly as she could, the length of her dress in one hand and her clutch in the other. Damian followed her, and the bang of the door filled her with electricity. With excitable, nervous energy. She pulled her grandmother’s compact out of her bag and touched up her gloss, because she had no idea what was supposed to happen next.
Her plans had never taken her this far, because, in the back of her mind, she’d been certain she would fail. Or be discovered. Or that he would have no interest in her, even with the disguise.
But he did.
“They went all out,” she said, snapping the compact shut and running her thumb over the embroidery. “Limousines for that many guests must have cost a fortune.”
“Well, the ticket holders pay for it, really. Not that you would know that.” His lip quirked. “How did you get past security, anyway?”
“I would tell you, but...” She shrugged. “You know how it goes.”
“Blood and mayhem and all that.”
“Exactly. Don’t make me ruin such a pretty dress.”
“If that dress is going to be ruined, it won’t be by bloodshed. Trust me.” He leaned back and stretched his arm along the back of the leather seat. The pose—coupled with the way his gaze burned her up—was so unabashedly male. She’d always envied his confidence in the space he occupied. “Now the mask, on the other hand—”
“It’s staying on.” She’d come too far to ruin it now. Her body was primed and ready for him—the one little taste from earlier had only stoked her appetite. “No negotiations.”
He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a grin forming. “But I’m a brilliant negotiator.”
“I’m sure you’re wickedly talented, but I’m not interested. The mask stays on or you can go home and have a cold shower.”
He laughed and reached for a bottle of champagne stashed in a small refrigerator that Lainey hadn’t noticed. Obviously, Damian had a lot more experience with limos than she did. He expertly eased the cork out of the bottle with a soft pop and poured the liquid into two glasses.
“I can handle a little mystery,” he said, passing a flute to her. “But I need you to tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked warily.
“You’re not married, are you?”
His words were a punch to her heart. It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might assume she was married, but it made sense. With his history and her desire to hide her identity, it was a logical conclusion. As much as he acted like he’d moved on, it was clear he still carried the scars from his divorce.
“No, I’m not married,” she said softly. “I’m not in a relationship of any kind, I promise.”
Damian raked a hand through his dark hair and nodded. “I gave something away, didn’t I?”
“Just that you’re a guy with morals.” She sipped her drink. “But I won’t push you for more information.”
* * *
Damian leaned back against the plush seat, toying with the stem of the champagne flute. Tonight he’d crossed a line that he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—at least for a little while—and he wasn’t the sort of guy who changed his mind once he’d made a decision.
He was supposed to be off women. Off sex and head games and all that fuckery, because he needed to concentrate on his work. After finding Jenny and Ben together, he’d screwed his way into oblivion for twelve months straight, and it had done nothing but cause him grief. It hadn’t filled the gaping chasm in his chest, nor had it quietened the critical voices in his head. So he’d become very selective about who he let into his bed. And even more selective about who he let into his life.
But then this redhead had bowled him over and flipped everything on its head. Back on the balcony, he’d been powerless to resist her demands for more—and she wouldn’t even tell him her name.
“I, uh... I don’t do this normally,” the redhead said.
“Have a one-night stand?”
“At least not without dinner first.” She drained the rest of her champagne. Looking for some Dutch courage, perhaps? He was tempted to remind her that he’d already brought her to orgasm once, so what was there to be nervous about? But he kept his mouth shut.
“We had canapés, so that’s dinner covered.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t seductive or sexy. She seemed...shy. “You know what I mean.”
“No judgement,” he said, finishing his drink.
Right about now he would have preferred a scotch—two fingers, neat—but this would do. Really, he didn’t want anything to dull this experience. Something told him that the redhead was special. That this whole crazy thing wasn’t going to be regular “good in the moment, but forget it the morning after” sex.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said. “I want this, you want this. All we need to do is settle on a location.”
“How about right here?” she whispered. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her mask, the pretty pink extending down her neck and colouring her chest.
“In the car?”
“Why not? As you said, your ticket paid for it.”
He stifled a groan as she crossed her legs, the long slit falling open to reveal miles of creamy, pale skin. Knowing she wore nothing but a scrap of lace beneath had made him impossibly hard. He wanted her in his lap, legs spread, moaning his name. Now.
Damian dropped the privacy partition and instructed the driver to circle the botanical garden a few times. With Saturday-night traffic, that should give him ample time to lose himself inside this beautiful, mysterious woman.
Her eyes grew dark, the muscles in her neck working as she swallowed. The low light danced across her skin, highlighting her smooth paleness where the dress exposed the sensual curve of her breasts. Light caught on the shiny silver beads, glimmering like stardust.
His cock hardened even more, straining against the wool of his tuxedo pants. Adjusting himself, he counted to ten in his head. His self-imposed dry spell would work against him if he didn’t keep his urges in check. If he was doing this, he wasn’t going to blow it in the first five minutes.
“You should know before we go any farther that I’m not going to tell you my name,” she said. Her fingertip traced the beading on her thigh. “Is that a problem?”
He clamped his teeth down on his lip and imagined sinking them into her, leaving a perfect indentation on her inner thigh. The idea of such a personal mark on her skin filled him with excitement. How would she react to the sharp sting mixed with all the pleasure he planned to give her?
“It’s not how I usually do things,” he said, holding out a hand. “But no, it’s not a problem.”
She slid across the limousine’s seat until her thigh touched his, her shallow breathing music to his ears. He grabbed her by the waist and hauled her into his lap so that she straddled him, the slit in her dress riding up even higher to expose the tops of her perfect, creamy thighs.
His cock ached to be inside her. Cupping her head with his hands, he smoothed up her jawline to thread his fingers into her hair. His thumb traced the shell of her ear as he stared at her mouth, watching her lips as her breath stuttered in and out. She sank lower, pressing the heat of her sex against his straining erection, sending sparks of need shooting through him.
“Stop moving,” he commanded, whispering into her ear.
The scent of peaches and vanilla invaded his nostrils and filtered through him like a drug. She stilled in his arms and he brought his lips to her jaw, kissing along the gentle angle until he reached her lips. They were plump and juicy.
Slowly, slowly.
Hovering above her lips, he waited to see if she would break. Not a muscle twitched as she waited, compliant. He pressed his mouth to hers, coaxing her lips open so he could taste her fully.
Knotting her hair in his fists, he held her head in place while he devoured her. She moaned into him, the muffled sound awakening every nerve ending in his body. He was going to savour this.