33. Cole
COLE
One last bet.
One last time.
Sage and I enter The Invitation together. I’m in a tux with a black mask in my hand. She’s in a sinful Venetian dress, slit up the side, long in the back and short in the front. Her mask is silver, sparkling like diamonds, ready to put on when we reach the ballroom.
“You’re brilliant for brilliant and beautiful for beautiful,” I tell her.
She shoots me a sexy, powerful glance, her blue eyes twinkling with dirty deeds. “Do you think compliments will make me throw the bet your way? You still won’t get me to bend.”
I laugh. “Woman, I’m not trying to get you to bend.” Then I whisper in her ear, “Unless it’s over the bed, or over my desk.”
“Don’t forget the table. You could bend me over a table,” she offers as we sweep through the casino.
My hand slides down her back, curling over her ass. I squeeze her hard.
She snaps her gaze to me. “You’re doing that to me in public? Among the roulette tables?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. And you want it,” I say in a low growl.
“I do. I definitely do,” she says, chin up, tall and proud by my side, like she wanted. Anyone can look at us. Anyone can see we’re together.
Let them look. Let them enjoy the view. The very public view.
We reach the ballroom, and we separate.
Our masks are on. The masquerade begins.
Sage moves fluidly through the crowd, her lithe body weaving between men and women, men and men, women and women, all in their finery, satin and tulle, lace and silk, and secrecy.
Secrecy is possible with masks.
Gold, silver, white, black. Faces are half-covered, shrouded in mystery, flanked by feathers, by beads, and by the wish to play.
Sage stops to chat with her friend Eliza, who’s clutching the arm of a burly, bearded man.
Eliza whispers something to Sage, then heads off with her date, though they look more platonic than romantic.
I turn away from them, watching my woman as she weaves through the masquerade, music floating, drinks pouring, glasses clinking.
Daniel goes first.
On the dance floor, he finds her, slides up against her, and takes her hand. He’s wearing a Phantom of the Opera mask.
Fitting.
So damn fitting.
I make my way to the bar, order a drink, and watch the woman I crave.
The woman I covet.
The woman I’m absolutely crazy for.
She’s perhaps twenty feet away.
Far enough that I feel like I’m spying on her, but close enough that I can catalog her every move.
Her visceral reaction, too, as my friend slides his hands around her waist and curls them over her lower back.
My skin sizzles, knowing what that does to Sage.
Knowing how sensitive her back is. How the woman gets turned on from a brush of fingertips there.
Then again, nearly everything I do to her—and we do to her—makes her wild.
Her whole body is an erogenous zone if you play her right. Hit the right notes. I can. Daniel can. We can.
The bartender slides me a glass. I thank him, knock some of the drink back, and stare shamelessly, enjoying the view of the best show in the hotel.
As Daniel’s hands trace gentle lines near the top of her ass, Sage shudders. I can tell she’s growing hotter. I can tell from how she moves with him. How she wraps one arm around his neck, then the other, letting her head fall back.
Such a gorgeous hedonist.
As they dance, he bends his face to her, cheek to cheek, whispering in her ear. I groan inside. Lust slams down my spine, my cock thickening as a tremble runs over her body.
A visible fucking tremble. Even from a distance. It is the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen in my life. My chest rumbles of its own volition.
My throat groans, with a mind of its own.
I take another swallow of the liquor, the tension in me mounting, along with the prospect of pleasure, as Sage grows more aroused.
I can only imagine the things Daniel’s saying.
I don’t have to imagine what they do to her though. Because they’re doing everything we want.
They’re melting her. They’re breaking her down. They’re wrecking her.
That’s what we want for her tonight. A hot, wet, turned-on-beyond-any-and-all-reason woman ready to be fucked both ways.