2. Masked Strangers #3
“Yes.” She moved his hand again. “Just like that.”
His thumb moved against her with increasing certainty, as though he was learning her response with every breath she took. Moaning softly, Rose gripped his coat, her hips pushing helplessly into his hand.
She had not thought of pleasing him. No instinct to keep herself detached.
Only need. Now.
With this man.
She still held fast to him. The thick and heavy weight in her palm pulsing. Hot. She tightened her fingers.
“Steady,” he rasped, his breath breaking against her neck. “Christ, I’m too near.”
Rose slid her thumb slowly over the sensitive tip.
He shuddered.
Rose reached around him with her other hand, finding the hard line of his backside beneath his coat. She gripped him there, lower than propriety would ever permit, her fingers moving in a slow, thoughtless massage.
Not for him.
Not because she had calculated what might please him.
Because she wanted to touch him everywhere.
He growled and pressed closer, his body fitting itself against hers with increasing urgency. Once. Then again.
Rose’s skirts were bunched around her thighs. Her breath came faster as she shifted closer, trying to bring him where she wanted him.
He seemed to understand.
His hips moved forward.
And then, just before she could—just before she could place him where the ache between her legs demanded him—
He stiffened.
Then his hips began to move, pumping hard, his body working desperately through her fist.
His forehead drove into her shoulder. His breath came ragged and helpless against her throat as he drove into her grip again and again.
Then one final, hard thrust—
Warmth spilled between them.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then he jerked back as though burned.
“Oh, God.”
The words were barely audible.
Rose drew in a breath. He was already turning away, one hand braced against the stone wall, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat.
“My apologies,” he said.
The shame in his voice stopped her cold.
He reached blindly for his handkerchief, fumbling with it so badly that Rose caught his wrist before he could make matters worse.
He did not look at her.
“I ought not to have—” He broke off, swallowing hard. “I did not intend—”
“There now. No one has died.”
His head lifted.
Rose took the handkerchief gently from his fingers. “You wanted me. I can hardly fault you for that.”
Then, without making a fuss of it, without pretending nothing had happened, she cleaned the warm evidence from her skin and adjusted her skirts.
When she looked back at him, his eyes were closed.
“You were not the only one overwhelmed,” she said softly.
“More so, I am afraid.”
“Perhaps.” Her smile was small, though real. “I found pleasure as well.”
His expression tightened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.
“I do not think that can be true.”
A quiet laugh touched her throat—not mockery, only surprise.
“I think,” she said, “I am the better authority on the matter.”
He watched her for a long moment, as though he could not decide whether to believe her.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Nor I yours.”
It was better that way. Better not to turn a night like this into something with names and consequences.
“Now,” she said, extending a hand, “help me down.”
He moved at once, lifting her carefully from the ledge as though she were something fragile. Then, with grave concentration, he set her bodice to rights. His fingers were still shaking.
“I’ll see you back inside,” he said.
“Wait.” Rose glanced toward the shadowed path, where their masks lay discarded in the grass, and he retrieved them without a word.
He brushed off a few hints of dirt, and together they refastened the ribbons, restoring the anonymity they had so thoroughly abandoned only moments before.
Only then did Rose nod.
They walked in silence through the moonlit garden, though the air between them seemed to hum with what had just happened.
At the terrace, he stopped. He was looking at her with an expression she didn’t quite understand.
Not regret. Not quite.
His gaze lingered on her masked face, then dropped briefly to her mouth. He seemed on the verge of speaking. Of asking something… Her name, perhaps.
The thought jolted her into action. Before he could speak, Rose slipped past him and into the ballroom.
She moved quickly through the crush of guests, keeping her head lowered as music and laughter folded around her. Somewhere between the dancers and the nearest exit, she felt the ribbon at the back of her mask loosen.
A moment later, it fell.
Rose did not stop for it.
She kept going, through the doors, down the steps, and out into the cool night, where the waiting carriage stood beyond the sweep of lantern light.
Only once she had climbed inside and shut the door behind her did she allow herself to breathe.
The carriage rolled away toward The Domus.
In the weeks that followed, the memory barely faded—the moonlight, the rasp of his breath, the fierce and unexpected pleasure of his touch.
Somehow, Rose knew she would never forget the masked stranger beneath the stars.