Valentine Masquerade (Mayfair Masquerade Novella #1)

Chapter 1

Ari

My phone vibrates, startling me awake, and I blink as I try to focus on the screen.

Mystery Man: Good morning, freckles. Did you sleep well?

I smile, my heart racing. How many nights have I fallen asleep whilst texting? I’ve lost count. But I’m far from mad about it.

These texts are what I look forward to the most. Between attending a prestigious college and living under the iron fist that is my stepfather, these messages give me life.

And yet I have no idea who they are from. Sometimes it feels as though they’re coming from two completely different people—yet not. It’s confusing as hell.

But I’m free to let go of my inhibitions with these texts. We talk about anything and everything. I’ve done things in the heat of the moment that make me blush just thinking about them.

I daydream about meeting whoever it is in real life, but that’s all it is; a dream, make-believe.

Me: Morning. I did. You?

I see bubbles appear almost instantly.

Mystery Man: I dreamt I was filling your sweet cunt, and you kept my cock warm all night.

Blushing doesn’t even begin to cover the heat I feel in my face, and I find myself squeezing my thighs together, my stomach pulsing with anticipation and my nipples hardening.

The fact that I have no idea what this person even looks like, and yet the thought of doing just as he said has my pulse racing.

I type back, unable to help myself.

Me: And then what happened?

Anticipation courses through me like it always does when our messages take this direction, which is often the case.

Mystery Man: And then you let me fuck you, hard, until you were squeezing me so tight you came all over my cock. Then I painted your pretty pussy walls white as I filled you with my cum.

“Fuck,” I whisper, because yeah, the thought of that has me aching with need.

To say I’ve been going through a dry spell is an understatement. I had a long-term boyfriend, but we split up nearly two years ago, and since then there’s been no one else. So here I am, twenty-one and involuntarily celibate.

I’ve been on dates, but they never seem to work out. I’ve been ghosted more times than I care to admit. That shit does something to your self-esteem, so I just gave up.

And then, one day out of nowhere, I received a text. It’ll be a year ago tomorrow.

I wonder if I’ll ever meet whoever this is in person.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

Mystery Man: Would you let me fill you up?

I bite my lower lip and quickly reply.

Me: Yes!

Mystery Man: Fuck yeah. Tell me, are you wet thinking about it?

Without thought, my hand lowers underneath the hem of my bed shorts as I part my legs, my fingers slipping between my thighs, brushing over my sensitive clit before lowering to my entrance.

I reply, typing back with my free hand.

Me: Yes

His reply is almost instant.

Mystery Man: Then what are you waiting for? Touch yourself!

Unable to deny him, or myself, I slip a finger inside my entrance, embarrassed by how wet I actually am.

It’s barely six in the morning, but I’m beyond turned on. I add a second finger, hooking them inside me, but it’s not enough. I need more, so much more.

I pull my hand free, reach for my bedside drawer, and retrieve the small drawstring bag, fumbling as I retrieve my Flicking G Spot vibrator.

Maybe I should be worried about the fact that it was sent to me by whoever is messaging me. That not only do they know who I am, but they also know where I live.

But I am still a woman—a woman with needs.

I put my phone down and make quick work of squirting some lube over my toy, though I probably don’t need it. I wasn’t lying when I admitted to being wet.

Pushing off my shorts, I wipe off the excess lube on them and sling the cover off my body, my bedroom still cloaked in darkness.

I love that my bedroom is the loft conversion; it gives me a semblance of privacy away from my mum, stepfather, and his sons. Fuck! My twin stepbrothers, Harrison and Hunter, are the devil’s spawn.

I swallow and let out a breath as I slide the vibrator inside me.

My thoughts fill with two identical faces, and I hate that it’s them I see as I press the button and let out a groan of pleasure.

I tell myself it’s just to have an image to hold on to as I get myself off.

I hate that secretly they take up so many of my dirtiest thoughts and fantasies. Things I dare not admit out loud.

I reach for my phone and see another message.

Mystery Man: Please tell me you’re getting yourself off just like me?

My heart races as I use my thumb to reply. It takes me a little longer, but my other hand is otherwise engaged at the moment.

Me: I am… but wish you were here to help!

Keeping the speed low, I flick the other button for the flickering tongue pattern that I like the most and let out a moan as filthy images of Harrison sucking on my clit and Hunter fucking me fill my vision.

See, and here lies the problem. Those boys are devils incarnate, and I hate that it’s them I picture as I up the speed, my orgasm close. I’m blaming my midnight reading choices of late. That’s why, no other reason.

It never takes me long to get off in the morning when I wake up aroused like this. Which, lately, is more often than not.

The shaft of the vibrator hits my G Spot, and I pant, desperate for my imminent orgasm.

My phone vibrating pulls me back, and I see a video waiting to be opened.

I press play without thinking, the image coming into focus: a large fist pumping up and down a thick shaft. The glistening of piercings has my eyes widening.

The thought of those inside me, rubbing me in all the right places, has me increasing the speed of my battery-operated friend, needing more as I try to match his rhythm the best I can, imagining that it’s his shaft inside me, hitting my G Spot.

I can hear his heavy breaths.

My own increasing.

And then the video cuts out.

I can’t help but whimper, wishing I could have seen him lose it completely.