“And a selfie?” she asked, already turning and backing her ass into me with her phone held in her outstretched hand.
I smiled for the picture. She snapped one, then turned and kissed my cheek for the second, then gave me a disappointed look when I turned away, looking for Roman and Teagan in the crowd.
“You’re not dancing?” a voice called out over the beat as tendrils of smoke came in from the sides of the floor, spreading thick at our feet, then rising to catch the lasers from the lights.
“Depends on who’s asking,” I answered, turning toward the voice.
Fuck yes. I had no clue who she was, but I was sold. Whatever she wanted from me—it was hers, she was that damned captivating.
The woman was tall with legs that wouldn’t quit, her curves accentuated by a purple corset that lifted her breasts to mouthwatering heights, and her skirt flared out short enough to show her garter belt and stockings. Her hair was ice blond, tucked away behind a tiara, and a butterfly mask covered her face from her high cheekbones, to flair out at the sides of her eyes, completely obscuring the rest of her face. Purple eyes looked at me expectantly, and I would have killed to know what color they were when she wasn’t at a costume ball.
And that mouth? Fuck me. Her lips were curved in a wide smile. About a hundred different plans flashed through my mind of what I was going to do with that mouth. I wanted to suck on that bottom lip, run my tongue over the little bow on top, plunge inside and taste every secret, and then I wanted to see those lips curve in an O of surprise and pleasure before they wrapped around my cock.
“Apparently, I’m asking, Farmboy.” She walked forward, her diaphanous wings stretching two feet on either side of her, then looped her arms around my neck. “I’ll be your Buttercup for a song.”
“What’s my line?” I managed to ask. A song? I was taking this woman home for the night. The weekend. The month. The summer. Whatever I could take.
There was something tickling the back of my brain, some part of me whispering I’d seen her before. The way she tugged that bottom lip between a row of even, white teeth was familiar.
“As you wish,” she reminded me with another flash of a smile and started to dance.
One good thing about being a professional athlete? I knew how to move my body. That’s all dancing really was, anyway, just a cross between athletics and sex, both of which I excelled at.
I took her waist in my hands, then moved to the beat, pulling her against my body.
She gasped, her eyes flaring wide for all of a heartbeat, but she never slowed. Her hips moved like a dream against mine, her wings blocking out the rest of the gala. A hundred other people disappeared from view, and all I saw was her. All I felt were her curves under my hands as I slid them up the sides of her ribs, my thumbs brushing the jeweled ribbing of her corset beneath her satin and lace-cupped breasts.
“God, Hollywood, you can move.” Her lips parted as her fingers tangled in my hair, stopping when she met my mask.
She knew who I was.
“It’s easy with you as a partner,” I said honestly, my hands tracing the lines of her body until I gripped her hips over her skirt.
“Oh is it?” She asked flirtatiously. “Tell me something. What would the rest of the team think if they saw your hands right now?” She arched against me with the beat, running her hands down my shirt.
“That I’m the luckiest bastard in the city.” I grinned, dipping slightly to hold her hips to mine as we moved. At least I will be once you tell me your name.
“Just the city?” she asked, her lips skimming my jaw.
The sensation shot down my spine, hardening my dick in less time than it took to slip one hand under that lacy skirt to touch her warm, toned thigh. Her breath caught.
“In the world.”
Her laughter triggered that little whisper in my mind again. Familiar. Gorgeous. Where had I seen this woman before?
“You have no clue who I am, do you?” she asked, raking her teeth lightly on my earlobe.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, ready to haul this woman over my shoulder and find out exactly who she was underneath this butterfly costume.
“Come on, Hollywood, say my name,” she taunted, her finger sliding into my waistband just far enough to tease.
I cupped the back of her neck and drew back so I could look into those purple eyes.
“Say it,” she said, rising on her toes so our mouths were only a breath apart.
“Mine.” I ducked my head to kiss her, but I wasn’t prepared for how fast she moved away, laughing.
“Say that in the sunlight, Farmboy.” She winked, then spun, narrowly missing me with a wing. Her hair flicked across my outstretched hand.
Polyester? It was a wig. What color was her hair underneath?
Another blast of smoke curled around us, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing with a dropped jaw and a serious hard-on.
I followed after her, but she’d done the impossible and fucking vanished.
“Shit.”
2
Savannah
My skin still tingled from the places we’d touched on the dance floor. My blood was sizzling, burning with the need to feel him again. Exhilaration tore through my veins, my mind spinning.
He didn't recognize me.
I ran my fingers delicately over my blonde wig, and a crazed smile shaped my lips. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way over to my best friend, London. Her petite frame leaned against a waist-high marble bar, her sapphire blue eyes lilting around the crowd, almost bored.
Her Marie Antoinette costume did everything to show off her tiny waist and ample bosom, the skirts of her dress popping out and hiding her athletic legs. There was enough makeup on her face that would make other people look like a clown, but on London? She looked like she stepped right out of 1770 France. All she needed was a platter of sweets in her hands and a sardonic smile on her lips.
"What’s got you so giddy?" London asked as I finally reached her and ordered a drink from the bartender.
I leaned against the bar next to her and tried to subdue the smile on my lips. "It's freezing, isn't it?"
London tilted her head, her usually black hair hidden beneath a beehive-shaped blonde wig that nearly toppled over with the movement.
"The costumes." I waved an arm to myself, indicating the entirety of my getup. Some might say it was overkill, but I always took any opportunity I could to become anyone other than Savannah Goodman. Daughter of the infamous Coach Goodman, coach of the Raleigh Raptors. In other words, completely and totally off limits to anyone who actually had the balls to make a move for me, or too untouchable for those who were scared shitless of what the Raptors would do to them if they tried.
My stomach turned acidic with a fresh raw hurt that still soured my soul. Two months. Two months I’d been with Trevor. I’d thought he was different.
I'd been wrong.
I’d been a fool.
"You do look completely different tonight," London said, her sapphire blue eyes scanning the length of my costume—the intricate details of my butterfly dress, the dark purple of my contacts that, while uncomfortable, gave me anonymity that I craved. Even my usually fiery red hair was stuffed and hidden under an ice blonde wig.