Chapter 4
MAX
Truth or Dare
She’s right in front of me—same laugh, same quick-silver wit—and the longer I listen the harder it is to believe the mask actually fooled her.
Part of me is thrilled she hasn’t connected the dots; it means I get to watch her discover “Matt” without the baggage that clings to Max Donovan.
But the bigger part of me is stunned and –I admit it– a little hurt that she has no clue that we shared a life-altering kiss already.
I felt the current the moment we shook hands—and the sizzle in my bloodstream now is the same jolt I got when she was waltzing in my arms. Different setting, same lightning.
It’s almost funny—almost—that she’s cataloguing me as ordinary crew when I’m the same man who pressed her against marble three nights ago.
Hoodies, ball gowns, spotlights, darkness: none of it matters.
My body recognizes her on a cellular level, like a chorus hook buried so deep it plays on loop beneath every song.
Yet there’s a crooked thrill in the secrecy.
She’s meeting the stripped-down version of me first—the man who can fix a faulty panel, who knows the smell of machine oil better than aftershave endorsements.
If she likes that guy, maybe she’ll survive the glare of the other one.
In the meantime I’ll savor every oblivious glance she throws my way, every spark that jumps between us, and pretend I’m just another roadie lucky enough to share an elevator with the woman who’s been haunting my pulses since the masquerade.
Today, without a mask, she is even more beautiful to me. She isn’t the runway-perfect kind of gorgeous that gets air-brushed onto magazine covers; she’s the kind that sneaks up on you and brands itself under your skin.
Chestnut-brown hair—thick, shiny, refusing to stay tucked in the sensible knot she tries to corral it into—keeps spilling wisps around her ears, framing a face all soft cheekbones and wicked, book-ish eyes.
Those eyes are a curious gray-green, the color of sea glass when the sun breaks through storm clouds, and they sharpen whenever she’s making a point—as though cataloguing my every micro-expression for future reference.
Today she’s wearing a gray cardigan and a modest pencil skirt skims her hips, but there’s nothing modest about the effect; every step sets an understated sway that makes it hard to remember any decent arguments against fate.
And her mouth—God, that mouth—full lower lip that still carries the faintest stain of berry gloss, corners quick to curl into a clever grin or tuck inward when she’s thinking.
I remember exactly how it felt under mine, warm and tasting faintly of champagne and daring.
Add the subtle cinnamon-and-vanilla scent of her shampoo and the way she worries her pen between her teeth when she’s concentrating, and I’m done for.
Nora shifts beside me in the elevator, cardigan wrapped tight, eyes huge in the emergency glow.
She’s masking it well, but the lift of her shoulders tells me fear is tap-dancing along her spine.
I remember that first glance at the ball—how curiosity lit her face before desire crashed in.
Same spark now, rimmed with anxiety she’s trying to sandbag.
Somewhere above us a relay clicks, like the building is thinking about rescuing us and then deciding we can fend for ourselves.
“Dispatch must be taking a lunch break,” I say, keeping my tone mild. “They’ll ping us when they reboot the system.”
“Let’s hope the rescue crew isn’t off enjoying a five-course meal,” she replies, but her laugh is thin.
I want to fold her into my arms, tell her I know exactly how this ends and it involves us walking out under our own steam. Instead I tap the intercom once more, shrug theatrically at the silence, and pivot to distraction mode.
“Okay,” I say, bracing one boot on the rail, “time for Plan B: Elevator Truth-or-Dare. It’s patented. Works every time systems fail.”
Her brow arches. “Patented, huh? What kind of dare can you do in a six-by-six box?”
“You’d be surprised,” I deadpan, pleased when a blush climbs her throat. “But we’ll start tame. Truth first: favorite pizza topping. Go.”
She exhales, the tension easing by a hair. “Easy. Roasted garlic. Yours?”
“Pineapple. Judge me later.”
“Consider yourself judged already.” The tease lands; relief flickers behind her eyes. Good. Keep it light, Donovan.
“Worst first date?” I toss next.
She thinks. “Guy who spent the whole night explaining Bitcoin to the waiter. Yours?”
“I once took a model to a punk show; she left after two songs because the bathroom lacked a ring-light.” Not a lie, just missing the part where paparazzi documented my humiliation.
Nora giggles, actually giggles, and the sound sparks heat low in my gut. She tucks hair behind her ear, cardigan slipping off one shoulder before she catches it.
Silence stretches, warm now, almost humming.
Part of me aches to tell her who I really am. See me, please, remember that kiss—but the stakes are too high and the timing all wrong.
“Truth or dare?” she asks.
“Truth.”
“Why logistics? Big, loud concerts don’t seem quiet-corner friendly.”
I pause, weighing my reply; logistics isn’t truly my world, but I still want to give her something honest.
Spotlights, screaming crowds, paparazzi following me—none of it quiet, ever. I exhale.
“Being on stage… up there is this crazy energy. But it’s a restless type of energy. Euphoric. Anxious. Driven. But never content. Lately I’ve found I enjoy the quieter moments backstage more.”
She studies me, empathy softening the edge of her profile. “Spotlight can be claustrophobic.”
“Exactly.”
Her shoulders drop another fraction, anxiety traded for connection. My pulse picks up, and I wonder if kissing her here would jog recognition—the way my thumb knew to stroke her pulse then the same way it twitches to do it now.
Another tremor shivers through the car—brief, harmless, but she grips the railing. Instinct overrides strategy; I step closer, aligning our bodies rail to rail.
“Still with me?” I keep my voice low.
“Yes.” The word escapes on a shaky exhale that fans across my collarbone. We’re inches apart, clipboards and maintenance calls forgotten. The only sound is the hush of shared air and the click of metal cooling overhead.
“Your move,” I murmur. “Truth or dare?”
She swallows. “Truth.”
I say: “One thing you want this year that scares you.”
Eyes shutter, open. “To write again. Something just for me. I keep telling myself real life doesn’t leave space.” Vulnerability flecks her voice, and it guts me, how much I want to protect that desire.
I nod, serious. “Good aspiration.”
Those gray-green eyes search my face like she’s trying to place me. My heart hammers: say it, remember me. But the moment tips another direction—into tension so dense it’s almost visible.
“Truth or dare?” she whispers.
“Dare,” I say, knowing it can only go one place.
“Kiss me,” she says, voice barely sound. “Like you don’t care who’s watching.”
Blood roars. “Happily.”
I close the distance, hand bracing the rail beside her head, the other finding her waist. She tilts up; I taste her inhale before my mouth claims hers—soft, then demanding, a collision of stored-up craving.
She answers with a sound that detonates caution.
My fingers slide under her cardigan and blouse, memorize the curve of her hip.
Somewhere at the back of my mind I know we’re careening toward a line; I plan to stop on the safe side—but her palm skims my ribs, ignites every nerve, and lines evaporate.
The emergency lights sputter, falter, die completely. Darkness engulfs us, erasing boundaries, leaving only touch and breath.
I deepen the kiss, desperate to show her that I’m the same man she met at the ball. She must feel it now, mustn’t she? Her hands fist the fabric of my hoodie, pulling me closer, and the years of practice I have at restraint shred under the heat of her body.
I grip her thighs, lift her as though she weighs nothing, and settle her on the waist-high safety rail.
Her heels hook behind my calves, skirt riding up just enough to bare warm skin against my forearms. The new height puts her mouth level with mine—perfect leverage for the kind of kiss that says remember me, even in the dark.
She grabs the hem of my hoodie, helping me peel it overhead until I’m down to a thin cotton tee.
Nora braces one hand on my shoulder, the other curling around the back of my neck, anchoring me while I explore: kisses along her jaw, the feathery ridge of her ear, the vulnerable line of her throat.
Each press earns a soft sound that shoots straight down my spine.
My name—Matt—escapes on a breathy plea that almost makes me confess everything.
Instead I answer with another lingering kiss, letting my hands memorize the gentle dip of her waist.
Another tremor jolts, clipping the word. She gasps; I steady her, feel her heartbeat slamming against my chest. Panic spikes, then fades as she doesn’t pull back. Instead she presses closer—giving consent without saying a word.
A voice of reason pipes up in the back of my mind: You can’t fuck her in an elevator. So instead, I do something different.
My hands move down, sliding over her hips, then lower, to the hem of her skirt.
The fabric is smooth under my fingers, and I can feel the lace of her panties through it.
I smirk against her lips, my fingers teasing the edge of the lace.
“You’re still fully dressed,” I murmur, my voice low and teasing.
“So are you,” she counters, her hands sliding down to my belt. Her touch sends a jolt through me, and I can feel my dick hardening against my jeans.
I laugh, a low, rumbling sound, and kiss her again, my fingers slipping under the waistband of her panties. She gasps into my mouth, her body arching into my touch. I take that as permission, my fingers sliding lower, seeking the heat I know is there.
She’s wet. Soaking wet. My fingers glide easily through her folds, and she moans, her head falling back, exposing the long line of her throat.
I kiss my way down, nipping at her skin, my fingers working their magic.
She’s so responsive, her body trembling with every touch, every stroke.
The scent of her arousal fills the air, musky and sweet, mixing with the vanilla of her perfume.
“Matt,” she pants, her hands gripping my shoulders. Her nails dig into my skin, but I don’t care. The pain only heightens the pleasure. “What are you doing?”
I look up, my fingers still moving, slow and deliberate. “I’m going to make you come. What does it look like?”
She bites her lip, her eyes fluttering closed. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breasts pressing against me. “This is… this is crazy. You can’t.”
I huff a laugh and press a kiss to her collarbone, my fingers circling her clit. “We’ll see about that.”
She doesn’t answer, her body speaking for her.
She’s pressing into my hand, her hips moving restlessly, seeking more friction.
I smirk, my fingers speeding up, my thumb rubbing her clit in firm circles.
The sound of her wetness against my touch is obscene, a slick rhythm that matches the pounding of my heart.
“Matt,” she whimpers, voice cracking. “You’re driving me insane.”
“My pleasure,” I murmur, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. My breath fans across her skin, and a shiver ripples through her.
“This pressure okay?”
A soft, wordless groan is her only answer—then a breathless nod that tells me everything I need to know.
Her body tightens, her muscles coiling like a spring.
And then she’s falling apart, her walls clenching around my fingers, her breath hitching on a sharp cry.
Her head falls forward, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and I hold her through it, my other hand gripping her hip, keeping her steady as she rides out her orgasm.
The sound of her release is music to my ears, a mix of moans and whimpers that make my dick throb painfully.
When she finally goes limp, I pull her against me, my lips brushing her hair. She’s shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her body is warm and pliant in my arms, and I can feel the rapid beat of her heart against my chest. “That was…” she starts, her voice weak.
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice hoarse. “It was.”
She lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine. There’s something in them—something soft, something vulnerable. It makes my chest ache in a way I can’t explain. Her lips are swollen from our kisses, and her cheeks are flushed. She looks wrecked, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
Her gaze drifts downward, cataloguing me the way she might study the spine of a rare book. It lingers at the stretched neckline of my T-shirt—right where the fabric sagged when her hands slid underneath. Slowly, almost absently, she reaches up and tugs the collar a little farther aside.
Her breath catches. So does mine.
The stylized storm-cloud coiled around a musical note is fully exposed now, black ink stark against my skin. Her fingertips hover, not quite touching. Recognition ripples across her face—confusion first, then dawning memory, then something sharper I can’t yet name.
“This…” Her voice is a whisper swallowed by the stalled elevator. “I’ve seen this before.” She doesn’t say at the masquerade, but the words hang between us all the same.
Every instinct screams to cover the mark, to spin another easy lie. Instead I stay still, letting her search the lines of ink like a map that might lead her back to me. Her touch finally lands, feather-light, and a shiver arrows straight down my spine.
Her features go from confusion to shock, from shock to something darker. The warmth in her gaze ices over.
“You—” She jerks her hand away as if burned. “That tattoo… you’re him. The masked-ball guy.”