Chapter 3
Russell
If anyone would have asked me, I would have said public sex isn’t really my thing.
Although, the only thing making this public is the fact that we are, technically, outside.
The balcony is covered, so those above us can’t look down, and we’re tucked away on the other side of the door, so even if that velvet curtain is drawn, nobody can see us.
That’s important to me.
Because I want to be the only fucking person who gets to see her like this.
With her head tipped back against the wall, her ruby mask sparkling in the light, she looks like a painting.
Like something erotic and suggestive at only the expression on her face, that particular shade of red in her mask, matched by her chest, cheeks, nails—the dress bunched up around her waist as I thrust against her, grateful for the control of the wall.
I like that I get to call the shots here, take her as deep and fast as I want. Each time I grind into her, it hits against her clit, and when she lets out a low, simpering noise, I press my hand in tighter over her mouth, and her eyes spark with delight.
When she ran into me at the refreshments table, she didn’t look like the kind of woman who would purr at being told what to do, who would consent to a public fucking on the balcony just outside the gala—but I guess looks can be deceiving.
I drink every part of her in, tugging on her long, loose brown hair and burying myself in the nape of her neck, like I might find her name written there. Instead, I just find more of that spicy vanilla perfume, which smells like dessert and wine all at once.
My fingers dig into the meat of her thigh, and it just makes me crazier, the press of her against me, the fact that there’s so much for me to grab and hold.
I want to get this dress off her, take her back to my hotel room, show her that—if we weren’t up against a stone wall digging into her back—I could lift her completely, hold her ass in my hands, drive into her with her arms around my neck and her gasps in my ear.
It’s not like I’m going to deny that this moment is hot—fucking her with our clothes still on, the urgency of doing it against the wall. The yielding way she’s relinquished control to me, the flash of her eyes and the challenge there for me to take what’s mine.
But I already want more. I want her tits in my palms, her body bare before me on a bed, hours and hours for me to do anything. Everything.
When I get her back to my hotel, I’m going to really have her.
Lay her out and look at her, turn her over in my hands, get to know every part of her body.
I’m going to taste her and have her taste me.
We’ll step in that massive, heated rain shower together, and I’ll press her to the glass, fucking her while her breath fogs against it.
I’m so caught up in the fantasies of the future, every way that I want to see her pleasure, that when she clenches around me, the tiniest whimper escaping at the ascent of her orgasm, it sends me into mine, my cock twitching inside her with the intent to release.
I can tell she’s just on the edge, and I slide my hand up into her hair, giving it a tug and loving the sound it pulls up from her throat.
“Come for me,” I order, and she does.
We unravel together, and I keep the pace, driving into her with the abandon of a man who’s already tipped over to the other side.
If I was someone else, I might worry about fucking her without a condom. But it’s been a long, long time since I had to care about anything like that.
When it’s done, I hold her there against the wall for a moment, reveling in the warmth and scent and feel of her, until she pushes against my hand and I force myself to slide out of her, to lower her leg to the balcony floor.
For a second, we stand together, our breath mingling as clouds in the air, then she clears her throat and starts to run her hands through her hair.
“Well,” she says, her voice rough before she clears her throat. “That was fun.”
She says that was fun with the intonation of it was nice knowing you, and crosses to the other side of the balcony, as if to give us some space.
But I don’t want space.
“Wait—” I say, as she adjusts her dress, but she shakes her head, like she knows what I’m going to say next.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, tipping her chin up and flashing me an unconcerned grin. “I’ll just nip to the bathroom and clean up—”
I don’t want her nipping anywhere. I want to scoop her into my arms and carry her to my hotel room. For the rest of the night, I want to do nothing but bury my face in her hair, learn her name, tease her apart.
Does she live in Manhattan? Which hospital does she work at? Or is she a med student?
I eye her now, thinking she might be roughly the right age for that. Which makes me realize, for the first time, that she might be just a little too young for me.
But right now, I just don’t care.
Opening my mouth, I try to think of a suave way to tell her all that. A cool line like the ones I used inside, that will communicate my interest but not give away just how much I need the touch and taste of her still, even after doing what we just did.
And then, before I can say anything, there’s the distinct creak of the door to the balcony opening. I look away from Ruby and to the square of orange light, already preparing myself to bark out at the person here that they need to fuck off.
I can tell she’s pulling away from this moment, and I don’t want to let her go.
I’m not willing to let her be some woman I touched on the balcony, only to never see again.
But I’m momentarily stunned when I see the blonde head that appears, the strange light blue eyes that dart over to meet mine. From here, I can smell his cologne, something that surely comes in a blue bottle and is supposed to smell like the ocean, or something stupid like that.
“There you are.” Cal stands holding the door open, and I can feel the heat from the candles and building’s heating—even with the thick velvet curtain—rolling through the door, washing over my ankles. I still don’t feel the cold.
I’m careful to keep my gaze on my cousin, not giving away the fact that Ruby is behind him, breathing hard, hair wild, definitely looking like she’s just been fucked.
If he were to glance in that direction and see her, it would be pretty obvious what I’ve been up to since I left the little circle of grieving in the front of the ballroom to “use the bathroom.”
And, in fact, I almost think Calvin might be able to tell what’s just happened when his eyes meet mine. That he might be able to tell I’ve just done something reckless and wild, something—given my relatively benign romantic history—kind of unprecedented.
He could catch onto the fact that I’ve been out here, fucking a stranger out in the cold, rather than doing the whole song and dance for my father’s cancer tour. At least if he does find out—and tell the family—I can plead insanity due to the grief.
I’m not actually sure the grief has hit me, or that when it does, it could drive me to insanity. Or that I would regret doing something like this in the face of it. In fact, being with Ruby put things into sharp perspective for me in a way that I haven’t experienced before.
But, in his typical fashion, Cal doesn’t notice anything about me, or anyone outside his tight circle of awareness.
“Frank has been looking for you, man,” Cal rubs his hand over his chin, and steps forward, letting the door fall shut behind him. Ruby moves quickly, stepping through it silently, and I move to the side, intending to go after her, but Cal steps in my way.
“Dude, are you okay? Are you hearing me?”
“I hear you,” I grind out, staring down at him with a look that I hope communicates exactly how much I hate his ass right now.
I don’t, actually, hate Cal. It’s just that he has a tendency to do this—getting in the way of things.
Cal lost his parents when we were young and adopted my father as the stand in for his own.
Which would have been just fine, except for the grating and impossible ways Cal twists his own life to try and best me.
Of course, we both decided to go into medicine. And after I announced I’d be focusing on cardiology, Cal quickly declared he’d be specializing in neurosurgery, just like Frank.
It’s hard to hate someone who has to do so much boot-licking just to feel loved.
So, I may not hate him, but I’m damn close to laying him out right now.
“Okay, but you’re not really looking at me, so—”
“Move.” I put my hands on his chest and sort of help him step to the side, and he gapes at me, shaking his head as I stride past him. Right now, I’m beyond caring.
I step back into the ballroom, every red mask catching my eye until I realize it’s not her. Moving through the room with a focused level of anti-social energy that makes most people shy away from me, I seek her out. I even check on the other balconies.
Only after the search is over do I realize with a sinking feeling that Ruby isn’t here. That the game between us surely ended the moment she pushed through this party, walked through the lobby, and slipped out into the night.
And I’m not entirely sure which of us won.