2. Sex Nostalgia
2
SEX NOSTALGIA
Finn
This is my first evening out in months.
Between late nights with my laptop, closing deals, and reading past bedtime with my seven-year-old—I’m a sucker for the just one more page plea—I can’t remember the last time I went out.
Alone .
When the invitation from the club landed in my email asking if I was interested in reactivating my membership—the one that’d been dead for years—I clicked yes impulsively.
One quick Google search later and I’d ordered the mask and had it delivered to my brownstone in an hour.
God bless New York and instant access to everything.
A masquerade at The Scene sounds like a perfect escape tonight, since my kid’s with his grandparents this weekend . “Bye, Dad,” he called to me so easily as his grandparents drove away.
Dad . I’m still getting used to that word, but it feels so damn right.
And so does this —catching a glimpse of a gorgeous masked goddess heading into the Albrecht Mansion. She looks utterly at home in that costume. Like she is a goddess.
From the other end of the block, I stare shamelessly at the beauty, something I can do freely now that I’m divorced.
Look .
Something I can enjoy again too. The shape of a woman, perhaps soon the feel of a woman.
But she’s gone in seconds, scurrying through the open door to the same destination I’m headed.
Perfect.
I’ll see her inside soon enough. As I near the mansion, my phone trills. I go on alert, grabbing it from my pocket in case it’s Zach or his grandparents, needing something, anything. But it’s not them. They’ve got their shit together.
It’s my lawyer. I’d much rather be off the clock on a Friday evening, but I don’t have that luxury—not when my brother and I are trying to close the biggest deal of our careers, and I’m the lead on it.
“Hey there,” I say as I answer.
“Hit a snag in the paperwork,” my attorney begins, wasting no time.
Fucking love him for skipping niceties. “What’s the story?” I ask as I turn the other way.
After taking off the mask, I spend the next thirty minutes pacing around the block, sorting out details that I thought we’d put to bed. “I’ll send you the new contract late tonight,” he finishes.
“But I won’t look at it till tomorrow,” I say.
He laughs. “Sounds like someone has a good night planned.”
A man can hope.
I say goodbye and end the phone call, then do my best to shove that business deal out of my mind for a couple hours.
Tonight is for escape at last.
With a goodnight text to my kid and a thanks to his grandparents, I silence the phone. I return to the mansion and give the password to security. Once upon a time in my twenties, I used to wonder what the security guys thought about parties that cater to certain tastes.
But then, life happened, and I stopped caring so much about what other people think. Besides, everyone has a secret. Some just wear theirs.
Like it’s yesterday, or really a decade ago, I head up the grand stairs, past the twinkling lights curled around the banister. The soft lilt of Cole Porter pulls me closer to the grand ballroom, but so does an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Is it weird to feel nostalgia for a—well, let’s call it what it is—a kink matchmaking extravaganza?
But sex nostalgia is a thing, evidently, and I’m feeling it big time. When I turn into the ballroom and drink in the sight—revelers in top hats and tails, gowns and ruffles, satin and black silk, with masks everywhere—the nostalgia disappears entirely.
I’m not longing for the past anymore. The past is the present once again, and it’s a feast for the senses from the clink of glasses to the chimes of laughter, to the floral perfumes mingling with the buttery aromas of whiskey and the sweet pear scents of champagne.
I inhale it all.
As the mellow notes of “Night and Day” fill the room, a tuxedoed man wearing a simple black mask walks my way, giving an inviting nod as he nears me. “Good evening,” he says in a familiar baritone. “Welcome to The Scene.”
Then he walks right past me.
Damn, this mask I’ve got on is good.
I clear my throat. “What does it take to get a fucking cocktail around here?”
He immediately spins on his heels and shoots me an apologetic smile. “I’ll send a server to you right away, sir.”
I rein in a grin, working the asshole act hard. “How about you take my drink order right now?”
Service is important to my buddy Tevin. But so are manners. I haven’t quite crossed the line yet, but I’m toeing it.
“Of course. What would you like?” he asks.
“Pabst. Served upside down. In a keg. It was the spring of?—”
He groans in laughter. “You asshole.” My college friend claps my back affectionately. All is forgiven. “It’s been…” Tevin’s gaze drifts down to my left hand. Naked.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say with some resignation, some relief, then waggle my bare fingers.
He lifts a brow in question. “Are congratulations in order?”
If he’d asked me a year ago when my wife called it quits, I’d have said no fucking way.
But now that the ink is newly dry on the divorce papers, all I can say is a big, truthful “yes.”
Maybe a hell yes. I’m finally crawling out of the black hole of my marriage.
“Then congratulations, man. Especially since you’re back here. So I’d say the drinks are on me tonight,” he says, even though this isn’t a cash bar. We’ve all paid handsomely for the beverages. “Macallan?”
“You know it,” I say, and Tevin heads off to the bar. He runs these parties with his wife, Kiara, who’s surely here somewhere, likely in a costume that makes her easy enough to recognize too.
As I wait for him to return, I hang back at the edge of the ballroom, checking out the crowd. I’m feeling at home a little more, thanks to the vibe. That’s the point. A familiar atmosphere but a chance to meet new people with the same tastes I have.
Like my goddess. There’s something about her…
With a laser focus, I survey the party for the beauty, enjoying that no one recognizes me. Anonymity is a wonderful thing, a lovely escape from the weight of the day and the heaviness of the past. It’s a cloak, too, to search for her.
She’s not mingling though. She’s not at the bar either.
The music shifts to “Rhapsody in Blue,” and I turn toward the grand piano set in the corner of the room, the romantic tune calling out to me.
Yes.
That’s her—behind the keys.
And just look at her. I stare unabashedly at her masked face—those lips, those fucking lush lips—for another few seconds till Tevin returns, hands me a tumbler, then says, “To your return to the land of the living. You were a phantom for some time, man.”
Can’t argue with him there. I lift the glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
An hour or two later, I’ve refreshed my drink, chatted with old friends, exchanged pleasantries with new ones, and tried valiantly, but failed miserably, to not stare at the woman at the piano.
She bites the corner of her cherry-red lips as she plays, moving her body sensually with the music. Her hair, too, is driving me wild, all curls and waves twisted up on one side. She’d better have a break really fucking soon.
I take a final swallow of my Macallan when she looks up again from the ivories. Her masked gaze meets mine from across the softly lit room. Electric candlelight plays with shadows, but even in the half-light, our eyes lock. There’s a catch in the music, a faint pause, then her lips press together.
Like she’s swallowing a sigh.
Or maybe the pause in the tune was intentional, because when she ends the number, she segues into the familiar opening notes of “Music of the Night.”
I’m not the only phantom here. But hell if I’m going to let any other man take his chance. Screw waiting for her to take a break.
Waiting is for other men.
A server sails by, and I set my empty glass on the tray, then weave through the crowd, past taffeta and finery, past promises of late-night trysts, past men kissing women, and women kissing women, and dark deeds negotiated in darker corners.
“May I join you?” I ask when I reach the other side of the piano.
She glances around, scanning for someone. Tevin? Kiara? Or just permission to…interact? That I can give her, since I know my friends won’t be bothered by the musician talking to a guest. “They won’t mind.”
She swallows, then asks skeptically, “Are you sure?”
“I promise.”
She’s quiet for a beat, clearly thinking while she keeps playing. She’s artful with the tune, extending the opening notes, letting them repeat like a soundtrack to her thoughts, perhaps. “And why should I believe you?”
To her, I’m just a stranger in a mask. “Because I don’t want you to get in trouble.” I keep my answer simple, suspecting that’s what she needs.
“Why’s that?” It’s another challenge, but her tone’s softer. Maybe she’s letting down her guard.
I’m not about to admit that the way she wears that costume, like it’s who she is deep inside, caught my eye from down the block. Then, when I arrived in the ballroom, her music caught my ear. She’s a woman in tune with her senses. That’s what I’ve missed. That’s what I crave desperately.
She deserves a direct answer though, and, perhaps, proof that I’m worthy of her. “Ever since I saw you walk past those doors, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
“Oh,” she says softly, then dips her face. “You saw me walk in?”
“Couldn’t look away,” I say, and her lips curve up. My god, I want to wipe the red lipstick off her mouth right now. “Still can’t.”
Life is short. Time is precious. I’m not here to fuck around.
She raises her face, meets my eyes, and plays on. “I saw you too.”
I smile at the acknowledgement of our instant attraction. “Good. Then, I ask again—may I join you?”
With a flirty smile, she plays past the opening notes at last. That’s a hell of an RSVP, and I take it, moving around the piano to the bench. I drink in the sight of her, from her creamy skin to the graceful column of her throat, to the mouth that I’m obsessed with already.
And her magnificent tits.
She ought to be worshipped in bed, and then, ideally, teased all night long.
But most of all, her dark eyes intrigue me. They sparkle with hidden wishes I want to grant.
She scoots over a few inches, and I slide right next to her on the bench. There’s a sliver of space between us, and she tips her gaze to the keys. “I’ve never played this as a duet,” she says softly. There’s a double meaning to her words. I’d like to find out what’s underneath them.
And frankly, under that gorgeous fucking dress.
“First time for everything…but,” I say, then dip my face closer to hers, “I have a confession. I can’t play a single song.”
“You tease.”
“You teased me with this song,” I counter.
“Did I?” she asks faux innocently.
“You absolutely fucking did,” I say, admiring her nimble fingers as they fly.
“Or maybe I just like Phantom of the Opera .”
“If I’m doing this right, you sure do.”
“I guess we’ll have to find out if you are.”
She’s making me work for it, and oh hell, will I ever. “I’m up for the challenge.”
I don’t know her at all. But I know this key detail—she likes to play, and I don’t just mean the piano. There’s a cat-and-mouse energy to her. A sense of gamesmanship was evident when she began playing “Music of the Night,” almost like she was summoning me from across the room.
Plus, I know from years ago that piano players here aren’t required to go full costume. But she did. And this choice of hers to dress like a goddess is so deliberate. So sexy. She might be playing the piano, but I suspect she wants to play other roles too. “I bet you were an excellent piano student once upon a time,” I begin.
There’s a subtle hitch in her breath. “I was.”
“I’m sure you listened and played perfectly during the whole lesson,” I say, emphasis on lesson .
She nods eagerly. “I was very good.”
“Did you have a good teacher?” I ask, feeling her out.
As her fingers fly, she turns her face slightly to me, her lips parted with…excitement. “He wasn’t...strict enough.”
Yes. Fucking yes.
As the song nears its end, my expression goes stoic. Intense, as I slide into the role she wants. “Show me ‘Für Elise,’” I demand. “I told you to work on it last week.”
“I’ll play it for you. The way you like,” she says, like a good student, and I stifle a groan from her responsiveness.
She slides right into the Beethoven. With her chin tipped up, her face mostly hidden, but her gaze locked on me, she asks, “Am I doing it right?”
I burn inside. Talk about a double meaning. But I stay in character. “No.”
“What am I doing wrong?”
I lower my voice, move closer to her ear. “You need to play it perfectly…even with distraction,” I tell her.
“Distract me,” she whispers.
Gladly.
I slide a hand across the small of her back over the silk of her gown.
As her fingers caress the keys, mine roam up her body, traveling across the fabric of her dress. I’ve missed this. This kind of touch. This kind of moment.
I reach her neck, tracing a line up her soft flesh all while she plays, and revelers drink champagne, and partygoers dance, and others eat, and some kiss in corners.
And here, behind the shield of the piano, I crave . The feel of her, the taste of her, the scent of her. Like a lush garden, the kind you’d want to fuck in.
But when she speaks again, her voice is a little confessional, and not at all in character. “I don’t want to ruin my chances here.”
Maybe this is her dream job. I don’t want to ruin that for her either. I drop the demanding tone. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No. I want you to keep going,” she says, being vulnerable now. “That’s the problem.”
Then I’d better find a solution, and sometimes the first idea is the best one. “When’s your break?”
“In ten minutes.”
My mind cycles through options then quickly lands on one. “Meet me on the rooftop patio. I’ll clear it. Take the stairs behind the library.”
She shakes her head instantly, then asks, “How about the library instead?”
There’s worry in her voice. But I don’t dwell on it. “The library is perfect. I’ll make sure no one’s there.”
“Will you grab my hand and pull me into a dark corner?”
I’m crackling with desire as I growl out a yes . I leave, heading to the library in seconds.