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.
Part II
After The Masquerade
7
Sage
I’m still in a daze.
On a post-climactic cloud nine.
I’m not sure I ever want to stop floating.
I want to savor the afterglow even as Eliza and I dart away from the party, head down the hall, swing around the corner to grab our phones, then reach the elevator.
Once we’re inside, I raise a hand and clasp my cheek, feeling the heat there. I brush that hand over my hair next, the ends mussed up, and I can recall how the Englishman played with my hair, curled it around his fist. I slide my hand down my satin skirt, remembering my American and how his strong hands explored me.
A shudder speeds through my body.
I check my mask, trying to focus on the practical, not on the sense memories that are still turning me on. My mask is the slightest bit askew. Not enough to reveal my face, but enough that I slide it back, adjusting it.
The telltale signs of tonight.
Of that most unexpected tryst in an alcove.
I draw a deep breath.
Was that real?
Did that truly happen?
And am I the worst friend ever?
I blink away the searing memories, shove off the lingering sensations. I focus on Eliza, on the urgency in her voice moments ago when she fetched me. “Is everything okay? You didn’t run into an ex or your father, did you?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Neither, thankfully.”
My brow knits. “Oh. Did you just need to go because of your early meetings?”
Another shake of her head. “Friend, I would not tug you away from whatever exploit had you tucked out of sight in an alcove because of a meeting. Or because of my beauty sleep. I can get myself home on my own just fine if I need to, thank you very much.” She takes a beat as the elevator whooshes down. “I went looking for you,” she says, giving me an inquisitive once-over, her tone more serious, “because Beverly showed up at the party.”
I cringe at the mention of my ex’s new woman—the woman I stumbled upon him with at the Wynn Hotel several months ago. I’d been out of town, visiting one of the Carmichael Hotels properties in Kauai, and my flight had returned early. I’d planned to surprise my beau, since he’d been so busy handling an auction for Expressionist art held at the Wynn. I was going to show up, take him out to dinner, and whisk him away to a penthouse suite after the auction.
That had been the plan.
But he surprised me instead when I ran into him and the woman who was keeping him busy at a bar in the Wynn.
Very publicly canoodling.
Very publicly kissing.
And then very publicly denying there was anything more to it.
He’d been spending all his time with his coworker. The fellow art lover, who handled the Expressionist art, had also been handling him.
To make matters worse, I’d helped her land the job with him. She’d been my curator at The Extravagant, working on the collections we showcase in our gallery.
And yet he denied it all, rushing after me and publicly declaring he hadn’t been cheating on me in front of all the patrons at the roulette tables, the dealers, the casino manager.
The liar embarrassed me publicly, with one of my former employees, at a hotel run by one of my colleagues.
Such a cad. And she earned her stripes as a backstabber.
I’m over it. So over it, but even so, I can still recall with crystal clarity how it felt to see him with her, her long red hair spilling down her back, his hands threaded in it.
“I wish Beverly could be banned from any event I attend,” I say with a heavy sigh. “And Derek too.” But he’s one of those men about town. One of those people you run into. “Was she with him?”
Eliza shakes her head. “I only saw her. She had on an itty-bitty mask, barely covering her eyes, so she was easy to recognize with all that hair. She was with a friend, it looked like. So I went looking for you, so you wouldn’t have to run into her inadvertently.”
“You’re an angel,” I say, gratitude in my tone, lucky to have a friend like her having my back.
But another thought flicks into my brain too. Should I have been more careful? Caution was the furthest thing from my mind when I left the party. I was intoxicated. High on their voices, their words, the way the men had touched me. I was lured by the opium fix of pleasure, heeding the siren call of seduction, following the filthy wishes offered from a genie’s lamp.
And I had been, admittedly, a little thrilled by the chance I might be discovered.
What does that say about me?
I don’t even want to excavate the meaning behind what I did tonight.
I groan, frustrated with myself. “What did I do? I was caught up in a tryst in the corner of a party. At the Aria. I know the owners of the Aria.”
“No,” Eliza speaks sharply. “Just no.”
I look up, raising my chin. “No, what?” I ask as we reach the ground floor and I text Carlos that we’re here and ready.
“There will be no ‘What did I do?’ No shame. No guilt.”
“But what if Beverly had seen me?”
“Who cares? She should still be groveling. She should be ashamed for using you to snag a job, then messing around with your boyfriend. Not the other way around,” she says as we weave through the late-night crowds, past the lobby’s library display. “I only went to find you so you wouldn’t be caught unawares again. I know you hate that.”
“I do,” I say softly as we walk. “I truly do.”
“First, you had a mask on. No one recognized you. Second, you were off in a corner. Third, you’re allowed to feel good.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that seems to last for an eon. She’s right. She’s so right. There was nothing wrong with my choice tonight.
Nothing wrong at all with a private tryst in an alcove with two strangers.
Two delicious strangers who want to see me again.