Chapter 7
JENNA
My body is practically humming as I follow the masked stranger toward his booth, my heart pounding wildly with each step.
This isn’t me, I don’t do things like this. But tonight feels different. Tonight, I’m someone else entirely, someone daring enough to take risks.
We reach the plush sofa nestled in a darkened corner overlooking the club’s main floor.
He gestures for me to sit first, waiting until I’ve eased onto the soft leather before joining me.
The energy around him is magnetic. His broad shoulders fill his suit effortlessly, the expensive fabric tailored perfectly to the powerful lines of his body.
I glance at him, frustrated by the mask hiding so much of his face.
The dark beard beneath gives him a dangerously appealing look, emphasizing his strong jaw and perfectly shaped lips.
He feels strangely familiar, but that must be my imagination—my subconscious trying to comfort me by inventing a connection.
I study him discreetly, catching the smooth confidence in every tiny gesture—the subtle tilt of his head as he regards me, the casual way he leans back, utterly at ease despite the charged atmosphere.
A waitress materializes beside us, her posture deferential, clearly recognizing my companion. “What would you like to drink?” she asks politely, turning to me first.
“Whiskey. Neat,” I say, catching the way the stranger’s lips curve slightly beneath his mask, as if pleased by my choice.
It’s not my usual choice, but something about the moment has given me a strange courage.
“And for you, sir?”
“The usual.”
The waitress vanishes into the darkness.
“The usual?” I ask.
He inclines his head slightly, eyes twinkling beneath his mask. “I come here often enough. They know what I prefer.”
“They must,” I say softly, teasingly, before leaning in just a little closer, emboldened by the anonymity we share. “You must be someone important to get service like that.”
He chuckles, the sound rich and deep, vibrating through me. “I tip well.”
Our drinks arrive swiftly, placed gently on the polished table before us.
I pick up the crystal glass and take a cautious sip, savoring the silky warmth sliding down my throat.
It’s smoother than anything I’ve tasted before, hinting at the kind of money and influence that follows this man wherever he goes.
“Good?” he asks, clearly amused by my reaction.
“Very,” I admit. I take another sip, feel it loosen the nerves knotting inside me. “Expensive taste.”
“I like quality,” he says simply, lifting his own glass and clinking it softly against mine. The subtle note of his voice, deep and controlled, catches my attention again.
There’s a faint slip in his accent, something foreign hiding beneath an American drawl. It confuses me slightly, but I push it aside.
“You’re nervous,” he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
I let out a small laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little.” His voice is velvet-soft, comforting. “Relax.”
Easier said than done. My spine feels rigid, and I suddenly realize I’m perched awkwardly at the edge of the sofa, tense, as if ready to bolt at any moment. Embarrassed, I make a show of leaning back against the cushions, forcing my muscles to loosen.
“I don’t usually do things like this,” I admit, my voice betraying more nerves than intended.
He tilts his head, curious. “Things like what, exactly?”
I gesture vaguely at the club, at him, flushing when I realize how silly I must look. “Coming to a place like this,” I say. “Meeting strange men in masks.”
A low laugh escapes him, warm and indulgent. “Then why tonight?”
I hesitate, staring into my whiskey for courage. “I don’t know,” I finally whisper, honesty spilling out unexpectedly. “Maybe because I want to be someone else tonight. Someone brave, daring, confident.”
His gaze intensifies, locking onto mine with startling directness. “I think you underestimate yourself.”
I laugh softly, deflecting. “You don’t even know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know you caught my eye the moment you walked in here.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I shake my head, laughing nervously again, deflecting from my insecurity. “I don’t exactly fit in here. Everyone’s so… perfect.”
He leans in, voice low and serious. “You’re wrong. Your curves, your presence—that’s what drew me to you. Believe me, you fit in more than you realize.”
Warmth runs through me. “Still, not knowing names…” It’s a weak protest, as if I’m trying to talk myself out of what I know I want.
He shifts closer, his presence overwhelmingly masculine, intoxicating. “Seriously, relax. Anonymity makes this little adventure that much more fun.”
“No names, no faces,” I say, my pulse racing faster, excitement eclipsing anxiety now. “Just for tonight.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and intent, as though he can read every hidden desire pulsing beneath my skin. “Exactly.”
The air thickens between us, charged with possibilities. His eyes drift to my lips, lingering there as if already tasting me. My breath hitches softly, betraying my craving for his touch.
He notices. His hand slowly lifts, the rough pad of his thumb tracing softly across my lower lip, making me tremble.
His voice is husky, dangerous, when he says, “You’re so beautiful, and you don’t even see it, do you?”
My mouth parts but no words come, only a sharp inhale as warmth floods low in my stomach. He watches my reaction, satisfied, and cups the back of my neck gently, drawing me in.
Our lips touch softly at first, a whisper of promise before deepening, his mouth warm and firm against mine. A shiver of need races through me as he claims me with slow, demanding kisses, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I open them for him.
The kiss grows urgent with each breathless gasp. I lean into him, intoxicated by his taste, whiskey and something darker, tempting. His hand slides from my neck down to my waist, holding me close, fingertips pressing possessively into the curve of my hip.
When he finally pulls back, his breath uneven, he murmurs softly, “You taste even sweeter than I imagined.”
My heart pounds frantically. Boldness overtakes me, fueled by whiskey and adrenaline. “And you kiss like someone who always gets what he wants.”
His chuckle is low, amused. “Usually. But tonight I’m more interested in what you want.”
The raw hunger in his voice sends heat cascading through me. He shifts closer, thigh pressing against mine, his fingers drawing slow, deliberate circles on my hip.
“Tell me. What do you want?”
I swallow hard, trying to summon words through my foggy brain. “I–I want to feel good. To let go for once.”
His eyes darken approvingly. “Then trust me to take care of you tonight.”
His words unravel the last threads of hesitation within me.
“Yes,” I whisper breathlessly. “I’ll trust you.”
He rewards me with another searing kiss, deeper this time, possessive. It makes me feel dizzy, and I surrender to him without reservation. The way he touches me, confident but tender, ignites a need in me I never knew existed.
When he finally eases back, his voice is rough with barely restrained desire. “Shall we take this somewhere more private?”
I nod, barely capable of coherent thought. “Please.”
He stands and extends his hand to me. There’s confidence in the gesture, quiet but unmistakable. I slip my hand into his, and the moment our fingers touch, my pulse stumbles.
Without a word, he leads me through a hallway lined with closed doors, each one elegant and mysterious. Soft moans drift from within—fragments of someone else’s pleasure—brushing against my skin like a whisper. My breath hitches, nerves tightening and coiling with anticipation.
At the very end of the corridor, he stops. He selects a door, opening it in a way that causes my insides to flutter. He waits for me to step in first.
The room is dim. A king-sized bed sits in the center, its dark sheets crisp and expensive-looking. Everything feels opulent and private, like the world outside doesn’t exist.
The door closes behind us with a quiet click. When he locks it, something inside me unlocks. He turns to face me, his gaze roaming over my body—hungry, certain, claiming.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, commanding without pressure.
I nod. “Yes.”
His mouth curves, showing his approval. He steps closer, his fingers brushing over my shoulders, then drifting slowly down my arms. Goosebumps rise in their wake.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I plan to take my time with you.”
Then his lips are on mine—hot, sure, possessive. I melt into him, all my uncertainty dissolving beneath the press of his body and the promise in his kiss.
Something shifts, and I know I’m not walking out of this room the same woman who walked in.