An Extravagant Tryst

A Prologue to One Exquisite Touch

Lauren Blakely

Little Dog Press

Contents

Also by Lauren Blakely

Dear Reader

About An Extravagant Tryst

1. Sage

2. Cole

3. Sage

4. Daniel

5. Cole

6. Sage

Also by Lauren Blakely

Contact

Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Also by Lauren Blakely

Big Rock Series

Big Rock

Mister O

Well Hung

Full Package

Joy Ride

Hard Wood

The Guys Who Got Away Series

Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend

The What If Guy

Thanks for Last Night

The Gift Series

The Engagement Gift

The Virgin Gift

The Decadent Gift

The Extravagant Series

One Night Only

One Exquisite Touch

One Time Only

One Alluring Chance

One Shameless Secret

MM Standalone Novels

A Guy Walks Into My Bar

The Heartbreakers Series

Once Upon a Real Good Time

Once Upon a Sure Thing

Once Upon a Wild Fling

Boyfriend Material

Asking For a Friend

Sex and Other Shiny Objects

One Night Stand-In

Lucky In Love Series

Best Laid Plans

The Feel Good Factor

Nobody Does It Better

Unzipped

Always Satisfied Series

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Instant Gratification

Overnight Service

Never Have I Ever

Special Delivery

The Sexy Suit Series

Lucky Suit

Birthday Suit

From Paris With Love

Wanderlust

Part-Time Lover

One Love Series

The Sexy One

The Only One

The Hot One

The Knocked Up Plan

Come As You Are

Sports Romance

Most Valuable Playboy

Most Likely to Score

Standalones

Stud Finder 

The V Card

The Real Deal

Unbreak My Heart 

The Break-Up Album

21 Stolen Kisses

Out of Bounds 

The Caught Up in Love Series

The Pretending Plot (previously called Pretending He’s Mine)

The Dating Proposal

The Second Chance Plan (previously called Caught Up In Us)

The Private Rehearsal (previously called Playing With Her Heart)

Seductive Nights Series

Night After Night

After This Night

One More Night

A Wildly Seductive Night

Dear Reader

I’m so excited to share The Extravagant series with you. This is a scorching, red-hot world filled with billionaires, high stakes, and wild nights! This free novella is just the beginning, and it’s actually the first part of ONE EXQUISITE TOUCH, the first standalone in the Extravagant series. I hope you enjoy a taste of this sexy, seductive world.

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Lauren

About An Extravagant Tryst

A prologue…

The night of the ball, I had one mission and one mission only. Find a most wicked man. Someone who’d bring me decadent pleasure, the likes of which I’ve never felt before.

What I didn’t bargain on was how much pleasure I’d experience in that secret alcove of the masquerade -- more than I ever thought possible with my masked strangers.

But when the clock hits midnight, I must go. Will I ever see my wicked men again?

From #1 NYT Bestselling author Lauren Blakely, experience your first taste of The Extravagant series, a scorching, red-hot world filled billionaires, high stakes, and wild nights!

1

Sage

Tonight, I am my opposite.

First, I start with my makeup.

I smooth on foundation, dust on powder, then set to work on my eyes. I turn them smoky, seductive, lined with black, winged at the corners.

They’re cat’s eyes, and seeing them like this sends a dangerous thrill through me.

A thrill I want to feel.

This is not how I look in the boardroom. There, I am subtle, all beige and nudes, blouses and suits.

After-hours, on nights like this, I become midnight and shimmer.

Next, I run the mascara brush through my lashes, over and over, making them thick and long, and transforming them into a look-at-me style. When I’m done, I dip another brush into a shiny powder and slide the faintest dusting of glitter across my shoulders, making my skin glow with gold.

I shiver, picturing lips on my shoulders, hands on my back, fingers on my waist. Briefly, I close my eyes, my imagination running wild, escaping to places I haven’t traveled in a long time.

Visiting far-off lands rich with pleasure, and islands teeming with bliss.

I open my eyes and let out a long exhale, settling back into the moment.

Blush comes next, as I highlight cheekbones I’d never dare to make so noticeable during the day. Sure, the blush won’t be visible, but it’s necessary like this as I change from day to night.

As I peer into the mirror, I check my reflection from the right, then the left.

Do I look like the co-CEO of one of the premier hotels on the Las Vegas Strip? I ask that question to the woman in the mirror, and with a devilish grin, I answer out loud, my lips quirking up. “I better not look like the owner of The Extravagant, and I don’t think I do at all.”

I run an old-fashioned silver brush through my hair, and the smoothing sensation gets me into character too. Everything about this evening belongs to a character.

A character who craves.

A character who didn’t crave for a long time.

Tingles rush through me as I slide further into the seductive world of make-believe, pinning up my blonde hair on one side, leaving it long and wavy down the back.

Yes, this too is the opposite of my workday self.

By day, I wear my hair up in a French twist or a low knotted bun. Those are my daytime styles because they say business.

Tonight, I personify pleasure. Or at least the pursuit of it.

That’s what I need desperately. Need it for my heart. Need it for my mind.

And so I RSVPed to the invitation my friend Eliza sent me to a fundraiser for a local charity we both support, one that provides scholarships for female athletes who can’t afford college otherwise.

You are cordially invited to a black-and-white masquerade. Elegant attire required. Don’t forget your mask.

As if I’d forget my mask.

The mask is my permission slip. The mask will let me be this other self, the one who’s only now discovering the delight of this late-night masquerade.

And I’m nearly ready. But I need my good luck charm. My silver hair clip.

I glide through my suite in The Extravagant, finding it on the marble coffee table in the spacious sunken living room, when there’s a rap on the door.

Three raps, a pause, followed by two.

It’s Eliza.

Smiling, I head to the door, check the peephole, and nearly squeal when I see my friend.

I yank open the door and gasp, the only suitable reaction to her costume. A white strapless dress clings to her trim frame, hugging her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. The skirt stops at her knees, but the bustle flares out behind her all the way to the floor. The white dress is etched in black lace. A butterfly mask adorns her green eyes. She is a vision in black-and-white.

“Guess who it is?” She’s all coy and playful, jutting out a hip.

I tap my chin. “Hmm. Could it be the sexiest woman at the ball tonight?”

She laughs, a smoky sound, as she sashays into my suite. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Except, well, my chariot. I gave Johnson the night off. Any chance we can use yours?”

“Of course we can use my . . . carriage,” I say, letting the door fall shut behind her as I beckon her into the place she knows well, since we’ve been best friends for several years.

As the door snicks shut, her eyebrows dance, and she waggles her fingers in my direction. I’m wearing only my underthings. “You do know ballroom attire is required, right? You’re not just showing up in your lingerie?” Eliza asks.

I feign surprise. “No! Really? I thought a white lace bra-and-panty set would highlight my mask so perfectly. You think not though?”

“Oh, well, if you’re aiming to complement the mask, then surely a bra made of feathers and a thong made of gems would be a better ensemble,” she says, faux serious as she flicks a strand of her chestnut hair.

I cringe. “Ouch. That hurts just hearing it.”

“Imagine wearing it.”

I shake my head. “Never. Thongs should be abolished,” I say as we cross the living room, returning to my dressing room.

“I’ll sign that petition. Hell, I’ll start the movement.”

“You have my full support in the anti-thong crusade.” I gesture to my white lace bra. “But don’t worry. I have the perfect costume for the theme of the party.”

Tonight’s masquerade ball is themed “Imagine,” something I’m particularly skilled at lately. My imagination is a fertile ground for so many things. “I just haven’t slipped into it yet. The hair always goes first. It’s a rule.”

“You love your rules. You have rules for so many things,” Eliza says playfully.

“And rules for fun are good too. Especially this one.” I stop in the dressing room and raise a making-a-point finger. “Always leave them wanting more.”

Eliza nods, a wise look in her green eyes. “Those are indeed words to live by.”

I peer into the mirror, then click open the silver hair clip with an inscription on the inside, reading it once more. Brilliant for brilliant. The words tug on my heart. They always do, from the very first time I wore this years ago.

I slide the silver pin into the side of my hair, then clip it, loving the way it catches the light just so, loving, too, how it’s another way to remember those I love.

“Gorgeous,” Eliza proclaims.

“Thank you,” I say, and I want to feel gorgeous. I crave lushness.

And lately, I’ve needed it.

It’s become necessary to be able to live this life, to balance everything. To take over the reins of my parents’ hotel as I’ve done, and run the financials. To strike deals, to negotiate, to crunch all the numbers.

The world I inhabit all day is oak and chrome, numbers and sums.

For a while, that pin-striped, spreadsheeted world soothed the ache in my heart.

Profit and loss statements were my balm.

And they worked well enough.

They helped me move on from the pain and grief, then from an unexpected heartache too.

Now, I’m here. On the other side.

So I’ve begun exploring a world at night beyond the boardroom. A party here, a party there. I’ve enjoyed a few evening fetes as an observer, donning a mask, a costume, and a new hairstyle. Going for a whirl on the dance floor in a ballroom, letting music and champagne whisk me away to another time, to the Renaissance, to Venice, to Victorian England.

What wonders a party can work on a wounded heart.

A party can play its part in mending the soul.

“And now, perhaps for a little costume. Emphasis on little,” I say saucily to my best friend as I yank open the closet door.

Her jaw comes unhinged as she surveys the shelves and racks glittering with gowns, dresses, and finery.

“Girl, have you been buying out all the sexy costumes in this city?” She strolls in, checking out my walk-in wardrobe, filled with corset after corset, dress after dress. Vintage, Victorian, Venetian. Brocade, gothic, leather.

What can I say? Dress-up has always been my thing.

I bring a hand to my chest. “Moi? Would I do such a thing?” I bat my lashes.

Rolling her eyes, Eliza shakes her head. “You? Never.”

“Never say never,” I chide, as I run my fingers along a lacy number. “That’s another good rule to live by.”

“Indeed, it’s an excellent one,” Eliza says.

I shed my white bra, then grab the costume I picked for tonight. I remove it from the padded satin hanger. Stepping into the short skirt, I pull up the dress, adjust the folds of lush black satin and taffeta under it, then tug on the steel-boned corset. I suck in a breath and lace it up in the back, tie after tie.

This is no easy feat, strapping myself in.

But I’ve done it before, practiced it many times, and now I can tie up a corset solo. Skills—I’ve got ’em.

Still, Eliza sets down her clutch with a tut. “Allow me, friend,” she says, moving behind me and giving a final tug on the ties in the back. “Some things require two sets of hands.”

I glance behind me, casting her a naughty look. “Are those your words to live by?”

She laughs, then lets go of the ties. “You know, I think if I were to have words to live by, that would be a damn guideline.”

“I’ll consider adding it to my list.”

“You do that.”

Next, I adjust the slim shoulder straps, thin lace ones that barely cover my skin. The better to show off the shimmery gold powder.

I add stockings next, gently rolling up the lace, then attaching the tops to my garters.

Shoes come next—Victorian lace-up boots.

I swivel around, waiting for the appraisal.

Eliza whistles her appreciation.

I curtsy.

“I just have one question for you,” my friend continues as she gestures to my outfit. “How exactly do you plan on keeping the men at bay tonight?”

“Whoever said I’d be keeping them at bay?”

“So you’re ready, then?” Her intense gaze penetrates my sassy side. “This time, you’re ready? You’re sure?”

I swallow, thinking of why I’m ready, of how I’ve hurt. I nod, keeping myself together. “So ready.”

She squeezes my shoulders. “Good, Cinderella. I know the last few times we went out, you were all about watching from the sidelines, checking out the scene. Now you can spread your wings, let them unfurl.”

“This bird is aching to fly.”

A smile comes my way. “That makes me happy to hear. And judging from the way you look tonight, you’re going to have many takers.”

I eye her stunning attire. “And the same to you. I bet we’ll both be collecting numbers.”

A soft smile curves her glossy lips as she shrugs, a little helplessly. “Too bad I have my eye on only one number.”

I pat her arm, sighing sympathetically. “I know, Eliza.” Do I ever know? The man she longs for is all kinds of off-limits. Isn’t that often the way it goes with the ones we want the most? “Maybe tonight someone else will catch your fancy.”

“A woman can dream.”

Leaving my closet, I head to my jewelry box, selecting a delicate diamond choker.

I slide it on, the metal cool against my warm skin. I fasten the clasp at my neck, admiring it in the mirror, the way the stones catch the light.

I grab the last piece of the costume, but the most important one.

The one that completes my transformation.

I slide on a violet mask, the edges lined with feathers and gems, like a trussed up purple peacock.

Sounds about right. I’ve got a peacock in me, that’s for sure.

One last glance in the mirror. The mask does its job admirably, covering more than half my face, only exposing my lips, my chin, and my silver hair clip. The eyeholes are lined with the thinnest mesh, making my blue eyes even harder to recognize. They look simply dark, simply naughty.

They’re eyes shrouded in mystery, painted with intrigue.

But my belly flips with nerves.

Unexpectedly.

I set a hand on my stomach, trying to settle them, trying to talk back to the tension. But I don’t have to do that alone. I have a friend, and I turn to her, setting a hand on Eliza’s arm. “Do I look like Sage Carmichael? The woman whose heart was unceremoniously broken in front of the entire city?”

My voice wobbles as I think of that night several months ago. The night I very publicly learned what my ex had been up to. Or rather, who.

I don’t want to look like that woman tonight.

She shakes her head. “You never look like that to me. You always look like my friend, a person I respect, a woman who kept it all together after loss, and after cruel heartbreak. The woman with thousands of employees whose livelihoods she’s responsible for. The benefactor for charity after charity in this city.” She taps my sternum, nothing but strength in her voice, in her gaze. “That’s who you are.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Shut up. I love you.”

Tossing her head back, Eliza cracks up. “Aww, you’re sweet and mean at the same time.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Just call me a conundrum.” I draw a deep breath. “Also, thank you. I needed that.”

“I could tell, and it’s easy to say because it’s true.”

I smooth a hand over my dress, loving the way it makes me feel. And I want to feel like a different woman, the one who can come out to play at night. Tonight is a new beginning for me. An end to the heartache that’s haunted me for the last several months.

A heartache I’m shedding completely.

That’s who the woman in the black corset and violet mask is—the woman who’s moving on.

As we make our way through my suite, I pick up the thread of conversation again. “And for the record, you look like a woman who has all sorts of fabulous secrets.”

“Oh, so you mean I look like exactly who I am? One of the execs of the football team who’s secretly in love with the backup quarterback?”

I grab her hand, smiling softly. “Someday you’ll let me devise a plan for you and Xavier.”

“Until then, let us imagine,” she says with a smile and a laugh.

I share both with her too.

We leave my suite, whisking our way down the plush carpeted hallway, then into the elevator. I press the button for the basement. No need to sweep through the casino dressed like this.

I’m not worried about being seen, per se. Nor am I sneaking off. I’d just rather enter the party already feeling like someone else. And so that’s how I want to begin the night too.

Also, another rule to live by is this: one should always err on the side of caution when one likes playing dress-up.

And this girl has always loved to play pretend.

The elevator lets us off at the lower level, and we wind through hallways till we near the exit. Reaching into my clutch, I grab my phone, dial my driver, and ask him to come around. Seconds later, we head outside to the portico at the back entrance of the hotel.

The valets glance my way, but none of them say, Good evening, Ms. Carmichael.

Neither do the doormen.

We are simply two women in costume. We blend in, because Vegas is a land for slipping into other personas.

The ruse works. No one expects to see buttoned-up Sage like this.

A frisson of excitement winds through me, the buzzy promise of getting away with something. It rushes through my body, the zip of anticipation, the hum of possibilities.

The gleaming black limo arrives within a minute, the driver pulling to the curb and stepping out.

Carlos’s eyes scan quickly, finding us. He opens the door for the back seat while a valet tips his cap. “Have a lovely evening in Las Vegas,” the valet says, as if we’re anyone.

I grin privately, delighted to pull this off.

When we’re in the car, the valet shuts the door behind us as Carlos returns to the wheel.

“Where am I taking you tonight, Ms. Carmichael?” he asks in the mirror.

He’s the only one who’ll know, and a good driver doesn’t let on about his boss’s nighttime escapades.

“Take us to Aria.”

He nods crisply. “As you wish.”

As the car swings away from my home, whooshing past The Invitation, a brand-new gleaming hotel across the street from mine, I shift my gaze to Eliza. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She’s thinking what I’m thinking. We are Cinderellas off to the ball.

Only, I don’t want to meet a Prince Charming.

I’ve no interest in that.

I’ve been there, ridden off into the sunset with the man I thought was the one.

The man who turned out to be the furthest thing from it, his charm nothing but a lie.

I won’t go there again, won’t risk that type of man.

But I wouldn’t mind meeting a Prince Wicked.

I wouldn’t mind that at all.

2

Cole

Opening a new hotel isn’t for the faint of heart.

Or the weak of stomach.

It takes an iron gut and balls of steel to go all-in on a new casino in Sin City.

As well as billions of dollars.

Fortunately, I possess all of those, as well as a lion’s determination to get what I want. And I want The Exquisite Show, a Cirque du Soleil–style production but even sexier, even racier.

Nearly every hotel on the Strip has been vying for this theatrical production.

I study the photos on my laptop, images of acrobats twisted into impossible shapes, sliding up and down metal scaffolds in an urban dreamscape of sorts. The pictures are from a show in Paris, where I saw it last, when I knew I wanted this kind of show for myself.

If all goes well, I’ll have it here soon at The Invitation.

The deal should be inked tonight, and I intend to make the winning offer, the one that beats every other hotel in this town.

I check my watch. I have one hour before I’m due at Aria for a party, the first one I’ll be attending since I relocated to Vegas last month for the opening of this hotel. I fire off a couple of emails, replying first to Scarlett in Paris, our newest business partner who invested in our European properties, then to the city of Las Vegas’s marketing manager about an ad campaign he wants The Invitation to participate in.

We’re the new kids on the block with one week open under our belt, so naturally, my response can only be an enthusiastic We’d be delighted to join your meeting to discuss these plans. I hit send as my VP of business affairs raps on the ajar door to my office.

One look and my instincts tell me what’s coming.

A motherfucking problem.

It’s in his shoulders, the way he carries himself, the set of his jaw.

Everything in his disposition says I didn’t deliver.

Mostly, his news is telegraphed in the way he swallows before he speaks. “Mr. Donovan,” he begins, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.

“Yes, Braxton,” I say as I shut my laptop, rise from my chair, and walk around my desk. “What’s the news with The Exquisite Show?”

Another swallow, a breath, then he lifts his chin. “I ran into a bit of a snag with the deal.”

Grabbing my phone from my desk, I arch a brow and toss back dryly, “You don’t say?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But it seems they didn’t like the terms I offered for a six-month residency.” He’s normally steady. That’s why I hired him. I wouldn’t let someone work for my company who couldn’t get shit done. But today, he’s uncharacteristically wobbly. And I suspect it’s because he knows how badly I want The Exquisite Show’s new production. Because I want this hotel to be the best on the Strip. It’s a simple goal, and it’s mine.

“And why didn’t they like the terms? The terms were fantastic,” I say, striding across the carpet, then motioning for Braxton to follow me.

There is no need to simply talk when you can walk and talk.

We head down the hallway lined with corporate offices, making our way to the elevator.

“They only want to agree to four months,” Braxton says. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says again, and I can hear the worry in his voice.

He knows he’s disappointed me.

I expected him to handle this.

I can’t do every-fucking-thing.

But Braxton mostly delivers. He mostly nails deals. This is rare for him, and that means I can either rip him to shreds for failing, or I can teach him how to do better.

Doesn’t do me any good to demean an employee. It only benefits me to build him up. So that’s what I do.

Starting with this rule of business. “Braxton, let me teach you something.”

The sandy-haired man nods crisply, a good soldier. “Yes, sir?”

I lift a finger, speaking softly. “Save your sorrys for your wife, or your girlfriend. Don’t say you’re sorry in business. Instead, say what you need. What you’re going to do. Or what you need me to do. That’s how you get ahead. Sorry doesn’t matter in business. Actions and plans do.” I pause, run a hand down my tie, and wait. “What do you need, Braxton?”

He squares his shoulders, taking a breath. “I need to get them to agree to six months. Can you help me with that?”

“I can.” I look at my watch again. “Meet me here in thirty minutes, and I’ll take care of this. You can listen to how it’s done.”

He nods dutifully, and I go upstairs to my penthouse suite, pour a finger of scotch, knock it back, and head to the shower.

Five minutes later, I’m dried off and in a fresh pair of black boxer-briefs. I walk past the balcony, stopping briefly to peer outside. Cars, cabs, limos, and buses trundle by on the Strip below, and the lights from the hotel across the way flicker on.

The Extravagant. A gorgeous property with a nighttime display of lights that make it look like its lush lawn is dripping with jewels.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

But this place? I survey the scene below me. Fountains better than the Bellagio’s, a classy, elegant entrance that feels exactly as the name implies—inviting—is better.

This is the crown jewel in my portfolio of hotels, and being second best simply isn’t an option.

I turn away from the view, making my way to the closet.

The dress code for tonight is black-and-white and masquerade.

Easy enough.

Tuxedos are not in short supply in my life. I choose one with tails, because that’s what the occasion calls for. I dress quickly, knot the bow tie, and slide a book inside my inner jacket pocket before grabbing my necessary ticket for admission.

A black Venetian mask.

Hardly anyone knows me yet in this city, which makes the dress code all the better. I like it that way. Keeps everyone on their toes.

Where nearly everyone should be.

With the mask in my hand, I head back down the elevator to the fifth floor. Braxton waits for me, pacing.

I bet he never left.

I hand him my phone. “Call yourself, then you can conference in the producers, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Thank you,” he says, doing as I say, then handing me back my phone and listening on his as we make our way down the grand staircase that leads into the casino.

As we go, I chat with Kelly, one of the producers, bending on a revenue term that was always flexible but standing firm on the length of the residency. With a sigh, but the kind that tells me I’m getting my yes, she says, “That will work.”

“Excellent. We couldn’t be more thrilled to have The Exquisite Show here. I’ll hand you off to Braxton, who’ll wrap up everything. By the way, how’s your father? Is he doing better after that horseback riding fall?”

“So much better. He should be back on Cinnamon in no time. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear,” I say.

“And, Cole?”

“Yes, Kelly?”

“Your offer was very competitive. You were up against a number of other properties, but we’re confident The Invitation is the right hotel for this show.”

I smile. “I’m glad you feel that way, and you’re correct—it’s the best venue, and we can’t wait for you to see what we do with it.” I hand her off to Braxton, telling him quietly to “Finish it off.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, then spins on his heel, and I head past the high-roller tables, taking in the smell of money, the clink of glasses, the slide of chips—chips that’ll land in the house’s favor.

Well, most of them.

I sigh contentedly, like I’m sniffing a good cognac. Better yet, a delicious perfume on a gorgeous woman. This hotel reeks of opportunity, of possibilities that can’t be denied, of corners you want to peek behind, places you want to enter.

When I reach the revolving door, my longtime business partner, Daniel, is waiting for me, leaning against the marble column, a curious look in his light eyes. Like me, he’s also dressed in black tie.

“Did you get The Exquisite Show after I buttered them up?”

“You?” I snort. “I’m sorry, did you offer high then flex on a term, or present them a fantastic offer that benefits all involved?”

“No, but I took the producers out to a delectable dinner on the Rue de Rivoli last month. Or had you forgotten?” he asks as we head to the waiting limo. He is the charming one. No doubt the English accent helps. But I have my own store of charm too. Of the gruffer, more direct variety. We started this company more than fifteen years ago, and have grown it to worldwide acclaim and success. We complement each other—not quite good cop, bad cop, but more like opener and closer. It works, the way we hand off deals, and the way I run the American properties and he handles the European ones, after launching the Asian hotels.

I scoff. “Do I look like a fucking amateur?”

Daniel laughs. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

“Of course I made it happen. That’s what we do.”

“That’s absolutely what we do,” he echoes as we slide into the back seat of our sleek, air-conditioned stretch limo. “And tonight, we should celebrate our wildly successful first week here in Sin City. Especially since I’ll be returning soon to London.”

“Such a rough life.”

“And for you as well, sharing all the riches we make,” he says.

That sparks an idea. A passion, if you will. Something we haven’t indulged in since the last hotel we opened in Bali more than a year ago. “Speaking of sharing,” I begin, stroking my jaw, lifting a brow. “It has been a while since we played our favorite game.”

His eyes gleam. “I was thinking the same thing too. And really, who are we to let Camus down?”

I laugh. Daniel and his erudite quotes. “Camus? Are you really still quoting Camus?”

“It was my degree subject, philosophy.” He lifts his chin and speaks like an orator. “You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them.”

“I suppose, then, it’s the only way to forgive our great success. But I prefer Twain.” I clear my throat, leaning on the wisdom of the American writer, who sure knew how to tell it like it is. “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.”

Daniel sets his hand on his heart. “Aww. So sweet that you want to share it with me. As they say here on your side of the pond, sharing is caring. But you know what I say?”

“Oh, are you going to quote yourself now?” I toss back, adjusting my cuff links as the car swings onto the main drag.

“Indeed I am. And I say the best way to share is to make a wager of it,” he says, reaching for a bottle from the console and pouring a glass of bourbon. “Fancy a wager, mate?”

I pour a glass too, liking the sound of wagers with the guy who’s been my closest friend since we were roommates in college, building our first business together, an underground card game at school, luring the wannabe card sharks. That business paid for most of my tuition, something I desperately needed it to do back then. Now, in some ways, I need these bets desperately too. Need them for other reasons—reasons Daniel understands all too well. “It’s easy to bet with you, since I clean up,” I say.

Daniel scoffs, leaning back against the leather seat, shaking his head. “I think not.”

“I think so. If memory serves, I’m ahead of you.” I lift the glass and take a swallow, savoring the burn, as I taunt him.

“You say that, Cole. But you seem to forget I have the advantage here.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, curious, but not letting on how curious.

His eyes glint, and he adopts the cockiest expression. “My accent makes me quite irresistible.”

“Ah, there you go again. Always leaning on the accent. Too bad it’s the only tool you have to use.”

“I don’t have to lean on it. It’s part and parcel of who I am. And I know how to use all my tools.”

“But you love to point out your accent. Maybe we need to handicap you. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to use it. See how well you fare without it.”

“Yes, just like the Little Mermaid,” he says deadpan, as he knocks back some liquor.

I deal him a skeptical look. “From Camus to The Little Mermaid? That’s how this evening is going to go?”

“I choose the most apropos examples for each situation. In this case, she wasn’t allowed to use her voice to seduce Prince Eric.”

I shoot him a hard stare. “We don’t want to seduce Prince Eric.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. But nor do I want to seduce Ariel. I like women who can speak. Who have agency.”

“Who make their own choices. Who are independent and strong,” I say, and I mean it. Our company has always provided equal pay for men and women, and many of our European properties are run by our newest business partner, Scarlett. We brought her on board a year ago, and she’s whip-smart, relentless, and brilliant.

But bets like this aren’t between business partners, per se. The wagers between Daniel and me are only between us, and they’re born from years of friendship. And also, more recently for me, from pain. From the need to move past it. And what better way to move beyond pain than through games?

I raise my glass. “And so, once again we drink to lady’s choice?”

“We bet on lady’s choice,” he adds, raising his glass, stretching his arm across the space between us and clinking it to mine.

I take a drink, then reach into the inside pocket of my coat, running a thumb over a chip. I take it out, showing it to him. “Five thousand.”

“Make it ten.”

We shake on it as we reach Aria, then head inside to the masquerade.

Eyes open.

Ready to find just the right woman.

3

Sage

The ballroom glitters.

A kaleidoscope of lights swirls from the ceiling, with rays of sapphire, fuchsia, and ruby skating across the dance floor, illuminating it, then darkening it.

It’s a mix of nightclub and ball, a cocktail of the two.

Sometimes the music is a waltz, other times it’s R & B or hip-hop. Couples twirl and glide, sway, and press.

From my post at the corner of the dance floor, my eyes eat up the feast of sights. The beautiful people, spinning in tandem. The music reverberating throughout the sumptuous room, accented in gold and marble. And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. I want to memorize the outfits, to snap photos of the costumes, and gaze at them when I need a hit of beauty. All the gorgeous satins, rustling taffetas, silk tuxes and tails.

But there are no photos allowed here.

Phones were checked at the door so we can be present in the moment, rather than on our devices.

And the moments unfurling in front of me are intoxicating.

All the dancing, all the touching, all the laughing.

Men and women.

Women and women.

Men and men.

Such lushness.

Eliza and I have already indulged in several dances with unknown men in Venetian masks. We’ve made small talk, chatting about the music, the party, the vibe, the decadence of it all. I’m practically floating from the high of the party, vibrating at a higher frequency of pleasure, my skin tingling from this shimmering spectacle in front of me, all my senses alive.

As a new wave of couples moves on the floor, I imagine the words falling from their lips. Whispered promises of pleasure fluttering across bare skin. Dirty words teased from lush mouths.

Someone out there on the dance floor, maybe several someones, will slip away soon, find a dark corner for dark deeds.

The prospect sparks a wave of longing in me. It’s been a while since I felt that kind of sizzle from another person. My skin is craving it, hungry for connection, for touch.

Maybe tonight?

Is that so much to want?

But I haven’t danced with anyone yet who’s lit me up, who’s set my skin to flames.

And the night is turning old, the clock ticking closer to midnight.

Prince Wicked is nowhere in sight.

Shame, that.

But so it goes. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Mostly, you have to fight for what you need.

For now, I’ll take one last glass of the delicious champagne before I make my way out of here. Now seems like a good time as Eliza glides off the dance floor, having just finished a tango-esque dance with a burly man with a beard.

Not the quarterback.

“One last drink?” I ask my friend.

“I’m always up for a final nightcap.”

I nod toward the man she left behind. “Anyone you like?”

“He’s not too shabby. I don’t mind a little fur on the face.”

“How good of you.”

“I thought so too,” she says playfully, and I know she’s trying to keep her mind open to new men, since risking a play with the athlete on her team roster would be too risky. “I have an early meeting at the stadium, chatting with Nadia and the other team stakeholders about the salary cap, so I might let myself enjoy one or two more dances, then I need my beauty sleep.”

We head to the bar and ask for champagne.

“Coming right up,” the bartender in the bow tie says, pouring a flute for me then one for her and handing them to us. I leave him a hundred-dollar tip. “Thank you so much,” he says, startled, but clearly delighted too.

“You are most welcome.” We step away from the bar, standing against a marble column, regarding the sumptuous tableau in front of us, hundreds of the glitterati here in Vegas.

“Have I told you how fabulous this ball is?” I say to Eliza, bumping my shoulder to hers.

She pretends to consider this, then nods thoughtfully. “I believe you have. About a half dozen times, was it?” A sly smirk curves her lips.

I swat her arm. “Hush. You love it when I tell you you’re brilliant. So I’ll tell you again. Because I’m glad you insisted that I come.”

“Insisted? You make it seem like it was akin to twisting your arm. You were pretty game, if memory serves.”

“Of course I was. There was no arm twisting involved. I’m just grateful. Sheesh. Could you be more difficult?” I tease her.

“I could be, but I’ll relent.” She takes a drink, then scans the room. “Because I think you’ve discovered your new passion.”

I tilt my head to the side, curious. “And what’s that? Beyond the ones you know I have—fashion, dogs, and spicy food.”

“Masquerades. Make-believe. Costume parties, and all the surprises and secrets they offer you.”

She says it like she’s offering me a silver platter of candy confections that will melt on my tongue. “Yes, I do seem to like these parties.” I run a hand down my black satin skirt. “And dressing up.”

“At the last few, you’ve kind of come alive. It makes me happy to see,” she says, her tone genuine, her gaze earnest. All the teasing has been stripped away.

“And I feel happier. So, thank you, and I vote for a party a month,” I tell her. I lift my glass, clinking the edge to hers.

“Please. I say once a week.”

“Count me in.” And even though my Prince Wicked is nowhere to be found, I am so glad I came here tonight. “This party is everything I need. It makes me feel good again. Even if I haven’t met someone to take my mind off . . . well, all the things we like our minds taken off of.”

Eliza shakes her head, tsking. “You spent far too long feeling bad after Derek, Sage. You shouldn’t feel bad. Your ex was a cad.”

“Derek was the living, breathing manifestation of one.”

She sets a soft hand on mine. “But I know you’re not just talking about your ex when you mention things you want to take your mind off of. You still miss your parents.”

A sad smile tugs at my lips as I think of them and their passing a few years ago. That pain pulls on my heart, while the missing surrounds me. You can never truly escape that type of loss. You just learn to live with it. “I do miss them. I miss them a lot. I sometimes still wish I could turn to them for advice.”

Eliza squares her shoulders, looking like a loving queen. “Your mother would tell you that you’ve done a damn fine job moving on from that cad of an ex, and to keep moving on.”

I grin, hearing my mother say those words too. She was always so strong, so certain. She believed wholeheartedly in the conquering power of love, and the precious necessity of self-worth too. “You know what? She would. She never wanted me to be with someone who didn’t deserve me.”

Eliza scoffs. “Life is far too short for men who don’t deserve us.”

“Truer words.”

The music shifts to a low, pulsing beat.

“And you know what I say?” she continues. “I say you only live once. Embrace it. Life is a cherry. Bite into it.”

I laugh, tossing my head back, the mask moving with me. It’s a little heavy against my face, but I’ve become used to the weight of it. “And is that your rule to live by? Eat cherries?”

Eliza nods vigorously. “It is. Because cherries are delish.”

She turns in the direction of a handsome man who’s tapping her shoulder. The bearded guy. “May I have another dance?”

“Yes, you may, but I have to leave in a little while. I turn into a pumpkin soon,” she says coyly.

“Then let’s make the dance worth it before the clock strikes midnight,” he says, and she waves goodbye to me with her fingers and heads to the edge of the dance floor. I take a sip of my bubbly, glancing around. On the other side of the room, a black-masked, dark-haired man in tails lifts a glass of champagne, takes a drink, and sets it down on the table. The blond man next to him—at least I think his hair is lighter, but it’s hard to see behind the Phantom mask he’s wearing—gestures to the dance floor, then leans against a marble column.

They’re a handsome pair, perhaps wingmanning each other?

My eyes roam around the party. If the evening ends right now at eleven thirty, I’m content.

But, truth be told, I do wish for a little more. A little something extra. Something exciting for the next half hour.

I sigh, wishing.

“This makes me wish I knew how to fox-trot.”

I blink as the voice rumbles, sending a shiver across my bare shoulders. Can a voice do that? Well, the voice just did, and I turn in the direction of it.

Oh.

Oh, yes.

No wonder my body reacted that way. I drink in the view of a tall, well-built creature who fills out his tux and tails deliciously. The material hugs his frame in all the right places, and the shirt lies enticingly flat against his stomach. My eyes roam shamelessly. What can I say? I’m an abs woman, and he looks like he’s rocking a washboard.

The dark-haired man with the glass of champagne. The man who set it down so he could make a beeline for me perhaps.

“Fox-trot. Tango. Rumba, maybe. Are you wishing you took cotillion?” I ask playfully, as I check out his lips. Full lips. A five-o’clock shadow. Yum.

“I am. Maybe I would’ve learned the polka too.”

“Polka is vital for Vegas nightlife. But is cotillion still a thing?”

He gives a simple shrug of what looks like a very strong shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t waltz for shit.”

The corners of my lips curve up. “I know how to waltz.”

He gives me a flirty smile. “Show-off,” he whispers, that growly tone sending a fresh flurry of tingles down my chest.

“Don’t you want to know my waltzing secret?”

He inches closer, his tone dark and decadent as he says, “I do want to know. Tell me. What is your secret?”

My breasts tingle, my nipples hardening just from the way he looks at me from behind his mask. From his voice too.

I lick my lips, answering him, “If you want to waltz, you just improvise.”

He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, dark like his midnight hair. “Ah, the old make-it-up-as-you-go-along routine.”

I give a playful lift of my shoulder. “Sometimes you have to let go and take a chance.”

“Give up control?” he asks, and I can see an eyebrow rise above his mask. Or maybe I can feel it. The arch of it. The question in it. The way he’s asking something else entirely.

“Yes, sometimes I do that,” I say, my voice feathery as I imagine him having his way with me. As I imagine he’d want to. I bet he likes taking just enough control. The same amount I want to relinquish.

He hums approvingly. “Good to know.”

That heady feeling winds through my body, that sense that we’re on all the same wavelengths. Still, I toss out a question. “And why’s that? Do you like having control, then?”

The man takes his time before he answers, almost as if the reply is taking shape seductively on his tongue. “Sometimes I do.”

A shiver dances down my spine, the sparks of pleasure zipping through me. I study his gaze, trying to read his eyes behind that mask. They’re dark brown. Chocolate. Rich. Gorgeous. “Sometimes? I doubt that. You seem like an all-the-time control guy.”

He gives a light laugh. “Do I?”

“Yes. You do.”

He steps closer again, raising a hand, running it down my arm. Oh, holy hell. His touch is electric, and my breath catches as he says, “By day, I like having control. Often by night too. But it’s not a requirement.”

His voice is seductive, dreamy, and a little gruff too. It’s sandpaper and stubble. It’s whiskey and cigars. His confidence is like an enticing cologne—one I want to inhale.

He brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, reminding me why I left it down. For this—for touch. He takes a beat, then asks, “And by night, what do you like?”

My pulse spikes, shooting all the way through the roof. “By night, I like what we all like,” I say, wildly turned on from the conversation. From his . . . obvious seduction. One I don’t want to end.

He runs a finger along the feathers in my mask. “And what’s that, lovely bird?”

I look at his full lips, wondering how they taste, how they’d feel on my skin. “At night, I like to be surprised.”

Those lips spread into a mischievous smile as he holds out a hand. “Dance with me.”

“That’s not a surprise,” I toss back saucily.

“But maybe it’ll become one,” he says, his voice gliding over my skin as his seduction clearly continues.

Maybe it will.

Maybe I want it to.

I take his hand, and he leads me to the dance floor.

He sets one palm on my waist, and we waltz to the music, joining the other couples moving elegantly around us under the lights, sophistication, and smoke. Eliza is nowhere to be seen. She’s gone, and so is the man with the beard.

But I’ve no time to think of Eliza when my dance partner spins me, then dips me, letting my back curve into an arch. “You fibbed,” I say, pouting.

“Did I?” he asks, a naughty tone of mischief in his voice. He keeps me in this position, bent back, under his control, waiting.

I don’t hate it.

In fact, I rather like it.

My skin turns hotter. My heart rate races.

“Yes. You lied. Because you waltz perfectly,” I say as he tugs me up and draws me close, flush against his hard frame. My God, he is hard everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

He strokes his fingers along my bare shoulders. “Perhaps I’m improvising. Or maybe I sensed that you wanted to be surprised.”

I want to be touched. Judging from the way my skin sings under his fingertips, I want to be touched everywhere. Still, I manage to keep up the banter, saying, “You have me there.”

“I’d like to have you in many places.”

Tingles burst through me. Confidence is so sexy. So alluring. Confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac. “Would you?”

“I absolutely would,” he says, as the music shifts to something simpler. Not quite a bump and grind but a tune that’s easy to sway and move to.

This time, he brings me closer, and I am giddy, lit up. I am drunk on this night. And maybe even getting a little tipsy on him when he stares at my lips, then says, “Your smile is radiant.”

“So is yours.” I lift a finger, feeling daring, tracing it along the top of his lip. A shudder moves through him as I touch him.

“You’re quite bold,” he says, nipping at my finger, then moaning lightly around it before letting go.

“Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least. But maybe I’d like to be bold with you.” He tightens his grip on my waist, his fingers playing, moving across my corseted costume. I swallow roughly. He must know what he’s doing to me. “Maybe I’d like to kiss this radiant smile right off of your beautiful face, make you hot and bothered, gasping, begging me to touch you more.”

“You’d do that to me?”

“Does that surprise you?”

I shake my head, my body buzzing, my head hazy, the taste of possibility on my lips. “No. It turns me on.”

“Good. That’s what I want to do to you. And I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

I expect him to say, I want you. That’s the next logical statement.

But he doesn’t, because a tall blond man cuts in, tapping on my shoulder. I turn in his direction. He’s the man with the Phantom mask. Up close, his jaw is chiseled, his face clean-shaven, his lips kissable. “May I have this dance?”

My throat is dry. And my skin hums all over. From the first man, and now the second one. They are opposites—one has dark hair, one light. One’s voice is gruff and raspy, and the other’s is deep, melodic, and British.

But both are panty-melting.

Two Prince Wickeds.

As the English one draws me against him, the American man moves behind me ever so briefly, pressing his chest against my back before he steps away.

Suddenly, my mind is racing to lands I never thought I’d want to explore.

In a flash, in a heartbeat, I do.

4

Daniel

A Few Minutes Earlier

Some might call me a gamesman.

They wouldn’t be wrong. Anything with a bit of strategy or a touch of cunning holds a particular appeal.

A bet, a night, an opportunity—it’s almost as if I’m drawing a bow across a violin, teasing out a lovely melody.

The start of a symphony.

One that begins with spotting a beautiful woman, admiring the waves of her hair, the cut of her jaw, the curves of her body.

But that’s not all.

That’s not even what interests me the most about the fairer sex. Everything that matters is found in the eyes. And in the lips.

Eyes are hard to see with masks on, so in many ways I’m handicapped.

But that’s fine by me. I like it when the game is a little harder, when I have to think and act smart. To make choices that might backfire.

As I regard the guests—this one, that one, perhaps another one—my gaze returning to the woman in the peacock mask, I know what it’s going to take for this dalliance to work the way I want it to. I’ll let Cole think he spotted her. He’ll dance with her first. Then I’ll cut in.

The symphony plays out in my head, the music growing stronger, louder, suggesting how the evening might unfold.

Because she’s the one.

It’s as clear as night.

She didn’t know it before she left her home, but she was destined to meet us tonight.

The woman in the black corset with a diamond necklace wrapped lovingly around her neck—Could there be any more of a sign that she’d adore long, lingering kisses on that supple neck?—is most definitely the one for us.

As we drink champagne and survey the dance floor, I say nothing to Cole to indicate I’ve found her. I simply let my gaze occasionally drift her way. Part of my plan to let him think he saw her first. Eventually, as Cole and I chat about everything and nothing, which is what we usually do, he keys in on her too.

Perfect.

It’s like leading a horse to water, as he says, “I believe it’s time to ask someone for a dance.”

He sets down his champagne.

I take a drink of mine. “Best of luck to you, mate.”

He raises an eyebrow above his black mask. “You think I need luck?”

“We all need luck. We all need luck every second of every day. Never underestimate the value of luck.”

He shoots me a doubtful grin, then heads over to the woman.

We both believe in hard work, but Cole doesn’t know what it’s like to have luck stolen from you. As I finish off my champagne, my eyes drift briefly to the long, jagged scar that runs between the first two knuckles on my right hand, all the way down to my wrist.

Luck is everything.

In this city, hell, in all the cities all around the world, you have to make luck work for you. Tonight, I let my best friend and business partner think he’s making the first move. It doesn’t hurt anyone for him to believe that.

For a few minutes, I soak in the sights of the party, the bodies moving and swaying, the heat rising in the room, the way women and men collide into each other. Hands slide down waists, up backs, into hair.

This party is so much more than a masquerade.

Or maybe that’s exactly what it is—a mask.

A mask for more.

How many others are here to kiss, to touch, to play?

To grind, to fuck, to come?

From the look of the dance floor, the answer is plenty.

This is not a party for the chaste.

It’s a party for the debauched.

Feeling like I belong, my eyes settle on the woman in Cole’s arms. Her radiant grin. Her pretty mouth. Her hair I want to pull, breasts I want to explore, arse I’d love to smack.

Provided she gives as good as she gets.

And by give, I mean with her mouth. With words. With the things she says.

Looks only go so far.

Wit is what turns me on sky-high.

So does opportunity, and tonight I plan to engineer it the way I want it to unfold.

Once they’ve danced for long enough, it’s my turn. I stride across the room, purposeful, determined. I tap on her shoulder and flash a smile, the only part of me that’s fully visible from behind this Phantom mask. In my most dashing voice, I ask, “May I have this dance?”

Playing the part of the gentleman, Cole steps away and offers her to me.

My eyes stay on her. She’s hard to read behind that mask. The mesh covers her eyes, and I can barely tell what color they are. But still, even behind the mesh, a hint of color shines through. Like a clear sky. I can see more in those eyes too. A gleam of mischief. A spark of desire.

“Yes, you may,” she says.

I take her hand and close the distance, but not completely. One should always leave a little something to a woman’s imagination. Dancing ought to stimulate desire, suggest entanglements. I leave a few inches between us, the air already crackling and charged. She swallows, her throat moving, a flush darkening her décolletage.

Perfect.

She’s already in the mood to play. Cole moves behind her, pausing briefly at her back. Perhaps pressing against her. Giving her a taste of what she might have.

Something that I would very much enjoy having with her. My favorite indulgence.

But first, let’s see if she’s as captivating as I believe.

Cole moves away, off the dance floor and out of sight. And now it’s just this lovely woman and me. “I was watching you dance earlier,” I tell her, not mincing words, not wasting time.

Her lips curve in a tiny grin. “Did you like what you saw?”

She lifts her chin, her pretty pink lips tilted up toward me, parted the slightest bit, almost like she’s waiting for a kiss. Yet her lips also contain the slightest hint of a question. She’s not ready to kiss yet, and that’s even more alluring.

“I was admiring your dancing. You’re quite good at spinning around the dance floor,” I say in a teasing tone.

“Does that mean you’ve had your eye on me all night?”

I nod, owning it. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

With a coy grin, she asks, “Should it bother me?”

I shake my head. “The opposite. I hope it arouses you.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Oh yes, I believe I chose well. She has so much fire in her. Just the way I like it.

The way we like it.

“I would like to know,” I retort, inching a little closer. “Because I was drawn to you immediately.”

Even from behind the mask, I can tell she rolls her eyes, and that was my intention—to wind her up.

“Is that a line?”

“Do you think it’s a line?”

“It seems like it might be one.”

“It would only be a line if I said something cliché like I can’t take my eyes off you,” I say, dragging out the words, making them exaggerated, as if I’m some sort of pickup artist. “Or if I said, I can’t see anyone else in the room but you.”

She tilts her head, perhaps a little perplexed. “Are you saying neither of those are true?”

“What I’m saying is those are rubbish reasons to tell a woman you’ve had your eye on her all night,” I say, as I slide my hand down her back toward the curve of her arse. The music pulses around us, thrumming over us, behind us, through us.

“Then what’s a non-rubbish reason?” she asks, a little breathy, a lot intrigued.

I spin her around then drag her close, her stomach against mine, but still the slightest bit of distance between her breasts and my chest. My hand travels the other direction now, going north, my fingertips spreading across the fabric of her corset. She shivers as my hands play along her back. “I’ve had my eye on you all night because you’re the most interesting woman in the room.”

She shivers against me, a full-body tremble that seems to start in her collarbone and radiate down her chest. I can feel her shuddering against me. My God, she’s like an instrument, and she’ll be gorgeous to play.

She’s a cello, and I want to feel her against me, under me, around me.

“And what makes me so interesting to you?”

Lifting a hand, I touch the feathers. “For starters, this mask. It says you’re bold and outgoing.”

“Does it now?”

“It does, and you are,” I whisper.

“I am,” she answers, as if a little mesmerized.

I trace the stones around her neck. “This necklace tells me you love beautiful things, but you also like to be that beautiful thing. To have people look at you.”

She takes a beat, her breath ghosting over her lips, then she whispers, “Yes.”

I return to the starting point—the back of her dress. “And then there’s this corset. I find your choice to wear it fascinating.”

She swallows. “Why?”

“Because you have to know it’s captivating.”

She seems to recover her composure, to remember how to flirt again, because she says, “Do you have a thing for fashion?”

I shake my head, laughing, as I trace the ties along her corset. “These ties—they make me think about what I want to do with them.”

“Tie me up?” she offers in a feathery voice, one that perhaps reveals her own interest in that prospect.

“I would love to tie you up. But I was actually thinking about what I want to do to them with my teeth.”

The expression in her face shifts from heat to rabid curiosity.

Another rough swallow comes from her, then she says, “What do you want to do to them with your teeth?”

I move in closer, my lips near her ear as I whisper, “Untie them one by one, then nip your back, lick your spine, and drag my mouth along that gorgeous neck of yours. Devouring you.”

She sways, nearly falling against my chest. “I would like that,” she says in a whisper. Then she glances around, as if she’s just remembered where she is. “But what about your friend?”

I arch a brow. “How do you know he’s my friend?”

“Because the two of you were staring at me at the same time.”

I can’t contain a grin. She’s onto us, and I fucking love it. “So you think we know each other?”

“I think you do. I think you like doing many things together.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and I enjoyed dancing with him too,” she says, tightening her hands on my shoulder, her pink lips turning pouty. “And perhaps I don’t want to have to choose between the two of you.”

I finger the strands of her hair, so soft, so silky. “Love, whoever said you had to choose?”

With that, I offer her a hand. She takes it, clasping her fingers against mine. I tip my forehead toward the hallway at the end of the ballroom and guide her away from the dance floor, around the corner, and down a quiet alcove, where I find my longtime friend and business partner.

Cole leans casually against the wall. He’s holding a small black book, one he looks up from as we approach.

The woman blinks at him. “Is that a little black book?”

He gives her the wryest of wry grins, brandishing the small leather-bound book. “Maybe it is. Should I put your number in it?”

“That depends on whether you’re going to want to see me again.”

“Do you want me to see you?”

“I’m not really thinking about the next time. I’m thinking about the fact that I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. And I’m wondering what’s going to happen in this alcove in the next fourteen minutes and fifty-five seconds.”

Cole grins. Even from behind his mask, there’s heat in his eyes. She’s everything he wants. “It’s F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of my favorite writers.” He tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, then stalks over to her and raises a hand.

He cups her cheek.

She gasps.

I run my palm along the ties of her corset. What would it be like to undo them one by one? To watch them fall open, to run my mouth along her back? Would she like that?

I decide to find out. Standing behind her, I gently brush her hair away from her neck. Then I whisper, “Would you like me to kiss your neck?”

As if we’ve done this before, as if we know exactly how this will work, Cole closes the rest of the distance between himself and our lady, his lips dangerously close to hers as he whispers, “And I’d love to kiss your lips.”

Her voice is a barren plea. “Yes. Please. Both.”

Her whole body is wracked with a gorgeous shudder that tells me this time with her is going to be electric.

Even with only fifteen minutes, it’s going to be intense and delicious.

And the thing is, I know something Cole doesn’t.

I’m throwing this bet.

5

Cole

Kissing with a mask on isn’t easy.

Lots of things in life aren’t easy though. And you do them anyway, because they’re worth it.

This tryst will be worth it. I’m certain of it. So, in the grand scheme of things, a couple of masks are hardly a roadblock.

Not at all.

Not when we have this beautiful, sensual, interested woman here between us.

Her curiosity—that’s what interests me most of all, that’s what intrigues me. It’s been evident since she joined me here in this alcove, evident in the way she walked over, how she lifted her chin, how she said yes to us.

I want to reward all of her curiosity, to let her know exactly why it’s worth having us both.

Together.

There is barely a breath of distance between this woman and my business partner . . . between this woman and me.

And after the long, endless week filled with meetings, phone calls, emails, contracts, deals, and negotiations, I don’t just want this.

I need this.

Whatever this will be.

Whatever this is becoming.

Whatever she’ll have.

Once upon a time, moments like this were pure fun, delicious decadence. Then they became the antidote to my dealmaking days. Now, they’re something more too. The promise of a pleasure-filled night has become a need.

A part of me. Something I crave now and then. Something I must have every so often.

It’s the high, the hit, the reward.

I inch even closer to her so that soon, soon I can kiss her.

But not yet. Not yet at all.

I take all the time in the world even though we barely have time.

Because I know how much more she’ll want my lips if I do this first. I spread my right hand across her waist, over the satin fabric of her corset. She shivers from that one touch.

From only one exquisite touch.

“You like it when we touch you,” I rasp out.

“I think I do,” she whispers as my left hand travels south, toying with the hem of her skirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daniel spreading his hands over her ass. Squeezing her.

“You think, lovely bird?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m sure now. I’m so sure.” She arches forward, her back bowing, words falling from her lips so gorgeously with a gasp. “What are you doing to me?” she whispers as she lowers her face, exposing more of the gorgeous real estate of the back of her neck.

He answers the call, dropping his mouth there.

“Why only be kissed by one man when you can be kissed by two?” I whisper, and she shudders.

“Yes, why?” she asks, all breathy and needy.

That’s why we do this. Because we know what this kind of attention can do to a woman when done right.

Because we know what kind of earth-shattering, mind-blowing pleasure we can bring to a gorgeous, curious woman who maybe, possibly, has never been kissed like this.

That’s what’s so thrilling about our game—it’s not the money.

Fuck the money.

It’s the possibility of what she might feel as we take her to new heights, make her soar in brand-new ways from double the pleasure, two times the bliss.

As my best friend trails his mouth along the back of her neck, I lower my face to her chest, dropping kisses along the exposed skin above those luscious breasts. I dust my lips along her sweet flesh, savoring that first honey taste of her as it swirls in my nose, goes to my head, makes my cock pound.

But tonight isn’t about my cock at all.

This is about the chance to bring incandescent pleasure to a woman who appears to covet it.

That is my greatest turn-on. To make a woman go wild, to make her pant, moan, and scream. To make her knees weak, her heart hammer, and her panties so damn damp that they’re utterly useless.

And then, to multiply her lust. Because bliss can be better when there are two men giving it to one woman.

When she can feel us everywhere.

I roam my lips over the delicious skin of her chest, kissing along her sternum, moving up to the hollow of her throat. I lick her there as Daniel’s hands rope in her blonde strands, as he brushes kisses along the edge of her shoulders. She gasps and sighs. Shivers too.

We are both adoring her with our lips and hands and bodies.

That’s what I want—for her to feel worshipped. Like a queen of her own pleasure.

I kiss her neck with that goal in mind—to make her writhe, to make her moan. She gasps and pants, and I haven’t even reached her lips yet. I journey up her neck to her chin, kissing her there, sucking.

Then I break that kiss, cup her jaw, and slide my thumb along her face. Daniel bends lower, kissing the back of her neck as her lips part in an oh. She grinds against me, sounds falling from her mouth that are so damn dangerous and delicious. I want to swallow them down, drink them up, devour them.

I can’t wait any longer. Closing my eyes, I drop my lips to hers, and I savor the taste of her kiss.

The second I touch her, she shudders, a sigh falling between our lips, a sigh that tells me she’ll be coming from my hand very soon.

I’ll win the bet.

But I’ve already won it, for all intents and purposes.

We already know who’s leading, only I don’t actually care about the bet. I’d lose that money double times over for another taste of her.

I have plenty of green. This game is never about the money. It’s about the chase, the thrill, the high of bringing this type of bliss to a woman, often for the first time. Of introducing something to her that she may never have experienced before but that might make her lose her mind with lust. And I’ve become addicted to making the woman I’m with come, come hard, then come harder than she ever has before, whatever it takes. Pleasure is the cure. Pleasure is always the goal.

I slide my hand lower along her skirt, cupping her through her clothes, letting her know where I’m headed. The catch in her breath tells me she wants me there, wants me to keep going.

My lips devour hers; my tongue strokes inside her mouth. We are hungry, greedily sucking on each other.

Every single second of kissing her is a sensual feast, especially when she breaks the kiss to utter one enticing word.

That makes me want her even more.

6

Sage

I’m a good girl.

At least I was. Once upon a time, maybe in another lifetime, I was vanilla.

I’d never thought about being in a triple scoop though. Never had this chance. I didn’t even know I’d want two men.

The only thing I was truly aware of when tonight began, back in my suite with the makeup, the hair, the jewels, and the clothes, was that I needed something.

Contact.

Connection.

Touch.

That feeling of being alive in my body.

Of being sensual.

I didn’t know that would mean two men.

But now, at the masquerade, I’m a new woman, a naughty woman, a kinky woman.

And if this is bad, bring it on.

Because I want more.

I want more of these sensations colliding inside of me, smashing, banging, crashing. Coming from all over me, from behind me, from in front of me. From all around me.

I never knew that pleasure could feel this way. That two men not only meant pleasure would be doubled, but amplified, played in surround sound, broadcast in high definition.

I feel so much. I feel everywhere—in my bones, in my cells, on my skin.

I am ravenous. I crave their hands all over me. Their lips everywhere. Breaking the kiss, I make my plea. “More.”

That’s all I can say, so I say it again, so needy. “More.”

I beg for it.

And they heed the call.

“We’ll give you everything you want,” the man behind me says in his delicious accent.

They somehow come closer, crowding me, the Englishman with his hands on my ass, gripping and squeezing, the American in front of me, pressing his pelvis against mine, grinding, letting me feel the full outline of his thick, hard cock as his hand travels along my dress.

As his lips crush mine.

Behind me, the blond stranger slides his lips along my neck against my hair, kissing me in the most sensual way, sliding his nose along my skin, inhaling me. “You smell so fucking good. I want to lick you, kiss you, eat you,” the Brit whispers while the American consumes my mouth with hard, hungry, demanding kisses.

One makes me swoon; the other makes me burn.

I am theirs to play with, and do I ever want to be played.

More than I ever expected.

My first stranger slides his lips over mine, nips and bites, heating me up, then kissing me so damn hard. He covers my waist with his hands as the kiss turns hotter, deeper.

And soon it is a lavish kiss.

It is rich with heat, colored with desire.

Tongues and need.

Breath and want.

The want is everywhere, radiating through each cell in my body, pulsing to every corner of my being as they seduce me in an alcove tucked away from the rest of the fete.

The faint strains of music from the dance floor float past my ears.

Pleasure coils in my belly, tightening and growing hotter between my legs. The man behind me slides his hands to the edge of my cheeks and then slams his pelvis against my ass.

I yelp in pleasure. He grinds against my ass while squeezing my cheeks at the same time, and I love what he’s doing with those big hands while the man in front consumes my lips.

I’m trapped between them, caught deliciously between two men who arouse me, two men who turn me on.

Two men who know exactly what to do to me.

Who know precisely how to make me feel like magic.

The American slides a hand down my legs on a fast track for the hem of my skirt again, then it’s going straight under, up along my thighs, and right to my wet, hot center. His hand glides across the panel of my panties, between my legs, and he groans. “Oh, lovely bird, you are soaked.”

Somehow I manage to form words. “I’m aching. Can you please do something about this sweet ache between my legs?”

“Yes. Yes, I can.” In a heartbeat, the American dips his fingers underneath the panel of my panties, and I cry out. Louder than I’ve been before, and for a flicker of a second, I imagine someone hears me.

Someone finds us.

The wicked thrill of discovery ignites a riot of sparks in my body. I don’t want to be caught, yet I can’t deny the possibility is electrifying.

That’s why I’m too loud.

The Englishman knows it. He pushes the outline of his cock against my ass while he moves a hand along my neck, over my chin, toward my mouth. “Love, you’ve got to be quiet. We don’t want anyone hearing what he’s about to do to you. Let me cover your mouth so no one else can hear you come.”

I shiver from his commanding words, from the way the two of them are conductors, my body the instrument.

“Yes, but first,” I say to the man whose hand is between my legs, “tell your English friend how it feels to touch me. Tell him what it’s like to play with my pussy.”

As I say those daring words, I feel bold, decadent.

And so damn powerful too.

Because they both groan. Savagely. As if they’re surprised to be given such a lusty directive.

“She feels so silky, so damn slippery,” the American rasps out as the Brit presses his palm to my mouth, covering my moans. “And her clit is aching for my touch.”

The Brit moans near my ear, nibbling on my earlobe. “Is she going to come for us soon?”

Gasping against his palm, I answer him with a nod, while my first Prince Wicked strokes my clit faster.

“Her pussy is so wet. So fucking slick. I bet she tastes spectacular,” he rasps out.

I feel spectacular, trembling everywhere, my knees quaking.

My sex aches so deliciously.

The American slides a finger inside me, then brings that same finger to his lips, sucking off the taste of me. He moans. “Like honey, like salt.”

His hand travels back to where I want him. Where I need him to fuck me with his fingers, to take me over the edge, but I can’t deny the Englishman behind me.

So I decide to be helpful.

I dip my hand between my legs, coating my fingers, then I lift my right hand behind me, offering it to that man.

“Oh, love, you read my mind,” he whispers all hot and dirty in my ear as he draws my finger into his mouth, and the suction from his wicked tongue makes the desire inside me crackle higher, burn hotter.

Pleasure coils between my legs, pulsing in hot waves as one stranger sucks off my taste, and the other one fucks me with his finger.

Hitting that spot inside me.

Crooking it.

Sending me into another world of bliss.

Ecstasy slams into me, consuming my entire body, taking over my mind, my cells, my sense of reason.

The Englishman’s hand clamps tighter over my mouth.

I come with a muffled cry.

My orgasm crashes over me in wave after wave, like I’m coming from both directions.

My climax lives everywhere.

On my skin.

In my bones.

Far into my mind.

And it lasts for ages, for blissful, wondrous ages of white-hot pleasure.

A pleasure that spreads so deep all I can think is I want this again.

No. I need it again.

Maybe even like this. With both of them. All of us. Hidden away from crowds, but not all the way. Not entirely.

But before I can say a word to my two masquerade men, a voice calls out from down the hall.

“Cinderella, where are you? Time to go.”

I tense. It’s Eliza, using her nickname for me. And that means it really is time to go.

I straighten my spine, run a hand over my skirt, and try to compose myself, to form words. “Maybe I’ll see you . . .”

I’m not sure where to go next. How to tread. This is all so new.

“You will, lovely bird,” the American says. “You will. In two weeks. The weekend after next. In the executive ballroom. There’s a party at The Invitation that Saturday.”

“You must come again,” the Brit adds, and the double entendre isn’t lost on me.

“I must. And perhaps you two must as well,” I say.

It’s a promise I’m not sure any one of us can keep, but the sound in Eliza’s voice made it clear my coach is about to turn into a pumpkin.

I leave as the clock strikes midnight.

Want to know what happens next with Sage? Will she see Cole again? What will she do when Cole shows up at her office the next day? Read ONE EXQUISITE TOUCH to find out! Available everywhere!

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