Chapter 29 #2
She hesitates, then her fingers slip into mine, my grip closing around hers. We move into the current of dancers. The crowd closes in around us, an ocean of silk and wool. Soft laughter drifts across the surface, and violins stretch into a note that sounds almost sinful.
My hand grips her lower back. The silk of her gown shifts beneath my palm, warm where the fabric thins.
She tilts her chin up, gaze lifting to the mask, studying the shape of me, reading what the world can’t see.
I guide her into the first slow turn, and the violins dip lower, joined by a slow, aching sweep of strings.
Her fingertips rest against my shoulder, feather-light. Even through the suit, I feel the precision of her touch. I keep my palm anchored at the small of her back, guiding her with subtle pressure, turning her through the shifting bodies.
She follows without hesitation.
Without realizing it, she’s moving exactly where I want her.
Her mask renders her unreadable to everyone else, but she isn’t unreadable to me. Not when her pulse betrays her.
We turn through the sea of dancers, gowns whispering past as everyone else blurs into motion and light.
On the next turn, I lean in and my lips brush the shell of her ear, barely a touch, more breath than contact.
“You look beautiful tonight, Babygirl.”
“You look handsome, My Wolf. And that mask…” Her fingers skim the edge of it. “It’s amazing. Very fitting.”
She doesn’t stop moving, and neither do I. We glide across the floor as if we’ve danced this way a hundred times, or a thousand, in lives we haven’t lived yet.
But under the mask, in the heat where her body aligns with mine, something shifts. A crackle, a recognition drawn taut. It wasn’t there a breath ago. Now it pulses between us.
Her hunger.
And mine.
The song bends into another, the strings deepening into something darker, a shift elegant enough that no one stumbles. My steps never break. Each rotation is deliberate, drawing her inch by inch toward the dimmer edge of the dance floor, where the chandelier’s reach fades.
The dancers around us shift and part in waves. In the gaps, the path clears exactly where I want it to.
And then, movement across the room.
Jon David.
His head turns, eyes locking onto Laurette. His stance sharpens, shoulders stiffening beneath his tailored jacket as he tracks us.
Our gazes collide across the glittering expanse, and I don’t break eye contact. The mask turns my stare into something colder.
A smirk touches my mouth.
Jon David’s jaw flexes hard. The muscle ticks once, and his fingers tighten around his glass. His free hand curls at his side, tense enough to broadcast the curiosity burning behind his mask.
I turn Laurette, smooth and controlled. Red silk fans wide, her skirt flaring as she spins beneath my hand. The shift is subtle, seamless, and it slides us clean out of Jon David’s line of sight. When the turn settles, he’s staring at empty space.
I lead Laurette through a narrow break in the crowd, the tide of bodies folding behind us, sealing the path as if the ballroom itself is our accomplice.
Ahead, the dark mouth of the side hall awaits.
Quiet.
Hidden.
Perfect.
And she follows where I lead her.
The corridor swallows the music whole, turning the ballroom into a memory behind us.
Checked marble stretches beneath our feet, each step echoing in the long hall.
Crystal sconces cast warm, golden pools of light along the dark wood paneling, their reflections shimmering across the floor as we move.
It feels removed from the world, a hallway built before either of us existed, a place where New Orleans society has gathered for generations and left its whispers in the walls.
Her hand tightens in mine.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“That’s not an answer,” she says, her composure thinning enough for me to hear the nerves beneath it. “What are we doing?”
“You’ll learn soon enough.” My thumb sweeps over her knuckles as I pull her deeper into the quiet.
Her breath stutters.
“Bastien, we can’t. Not here.”
I slow just enough to angle my head back toward her, my voice lowering into something darker. “We can. Because you want to find out what happens when you let desire suppress logic.”
A step deeper into the shadows.
“You followed the danger instead of walking away from it.”
Another beat. Closer now. Her breath catches against mine.
“I can feel how badly you want to find out what I’ll do next.”
Her breath changes first. Quick, shallow pulls that tremble in the space between us, each one sharper than the last. I know the war inside her—logic clawing at impulse, composure splintering under want, every rule she’s built around herself giving way one breath at a time.
She’s unraveling in silence.
I guide her deeper into the hall, danger humming between us. The bend ahead drapes us in softer shadows. Fewer guests. Fewer witnesses. Only the faint bleed of violins through plaster walls and the muted clink of crystal drifting from another world.
“This is insane,” she whispers.
It isn’t a protest.
I lean down, close enough for her mask to brush mine, her breath warm against my lips.
“Maybe,” I tease, voice low and edged, “but you followed me anyway.”
The side gallery closes around us in a hush. Light dims to a moody half-glow, and sconces cast long shadows across the marble tiles. The air carries the scent of lacquered wood, aging varnish, and the quiet arrogance of old wealth.
Rare paintings. Gilt frames. Velvet ropes guarding history.
I pull the door shut without turning, my hand still wrapped around hers. The sound clicks softly and final. The gala beyond becomes a muted thrum, just a pulse beneath the floorboards, distant enough to make the quiet in here illicit.
She pivots toward me, breath unsteady. “Bastien.”
Hearing her say my name that way cuts deep. She’s undoing me without so much as touching the mask.
I guide her backward with a slow step, the kind that leaves her no doubt about intention. She meets the paneled wall with a subtle intake of breath. My hand braces beside her head. The other finds the line of her waist and draws her toward me.
The masks stay on, and the distance between us disappears.
She releases a shaky half-laugh. “Everyone I know is in this building—friends, family, coworkers.”
“Your ex,” I add, stepping closer until her body aligns with mine.
Her breath catches. “Are you jealous?”
I dip my head, the carved grin of the mask tilting inches from her cheek. “Would it be true obsession if I wasn’t?”
Her fingers flex at her sides, a reflex she can’t hide. “There’s nothing between us.”
“I know. I’ve watched.”
She freezes with the sudden awareness of what that means—how long I’ve been orbiting her, how closely, how deliberately.
My hand slides to the small of her back and draws her against me. Not rough. Not hurried. Just a deliberate pull that tells her how I want her.
She doesn’t resist. Not even a breath.
Her hands rest against my chest, trembling, on the brink of sin.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “You know what turns me on the most?”
“Tell me.”
My breath drags down her neck, hot and filthy. “That your ex is in this building wondering where you are right now.”
She stiffens.
“Jon David Bellamy.” His name is venom on my tongue. “I bet he’s sipping champagne, looking around the room, trying to figure out where you went, who you’re with, and what you’re doing.”
A flicker runs through her.
“Wouldn’t it be something if he walked in right now? Tables turned. You, trembling against the wall, getting fucked while he watches.”
Her breath hitches, and her chest presses flush against mine.
“He’d take one look at you and know—” I lean in, voice dark. “You’re mine now. Not his.”
She whimpers, low and broken. Half moan, half surrender.
I pull back enough to study her. “Tell me the truth. Is your pussy wet for me right now?”
“Dripping wet,” she says, voice soft and wrecked.
Fuck. That’s all I need.
I reach between us and undo my belt, dragging the front of my pants down just far enough.
Her eyes widen, then darken.
No words or hesitation.
My hand slips beneath her gown, dragging it past her hips in one slow, unrelenting sweep.
She gasps, spine arching against the panel as I catch the underside of her thigh and lift.
Her other leg stays grounded, foot still braced in a Marie Antoinette heel, the delicate curve of it trembling beneath her weight.
The lifted foot wobbles. Its matching shoe dangles for a breath—then slips free and drops to the floor with a soft, decisive clatter.
She’s balanced on one trembling heel, completely in my hands.
I press my forehead to hers, our breath colliding.
She shifts. Hips tilted. Offering herself without a word.
I hook a finger in the crotch of her panties and pull them aside, exposing her. I fist my cock, line up, and thrust—one hard, claiming stroke, all the way in.
Her gasp splits the quiet. Her nails bite into my shoulders, and her pussy clamps around me.
She moans into my mouth, and I drag my lips down her throat, tasting skin slick with heat and need.
“It scares me how much I want you,” she whispers, voice wrecked and trembling.
“Careful, Babygirl. Keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re the one who can’t get enough.”
“I think I’m as obsessed with you as you are with me.”
“Then we’re equally fucked.”
My mouth crashes into hers, hungry and claiming. I fuck up into her, brutal and relentless. Each thrust bounces her against the wall, silk hiked to her waist, her mouth open and wrecked as I drive in deeply.
The wet slap of our bodies echoes through the dark. It’s obscene and shameless. Her whole body tightens with every thrust.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps. Voices.
Heels hitting marble.
Laurette bites her lip hard, eyes wide, but she doesn’t freeze. And I don’t stop.
I slam her into the wall and thrust deeper. She cries out—high and desperate. Her pussy grips tighter. Her hips roll into mine, hungry for more.
Laughter echoes down the corridor. There’s only one thin door between us and exposure.
I don’t slow down… I fuck her harder. Because I want them to hear. I want Jon David to open that door and see what he’s lost forever.
Her moan tears loose, sharp and strangled. Her body clenches. She’s close. I feel it in every shake, every gasp, every fucking twitch of her thighs.
“Come for me. Let them hear who you belong to.”
She shatters, head thrown back, breath punched from her lungs. Her pussy spasms around me, clenching so hard it rips the air from my throat.
That’s it.
That’s all it takes.
I slam deep and spill inside her, the growl in my throat raw and broken. My forehead presses to hers, and my breath breaks the silence.
The voices pass, and footsteps fade.
I ease back, still inside her, reluctant to let go. Her breath is ragged as her chest rises and falls.
Then I pull out—slow and final—and my cum slips down her thigh.
She tilts her head, bracing for my lips on her throat. That’s the usual. Tonight, I cross a different line.
My mouth finds hers, and our kiss is slow, intentional, nothing like the way I’ve kissed her before. My lips press to hers with a softness I’ve never allowed myself.
She breathes into me, her mouth opening beneath mine with a shiver that makes my grip tighten.
My tongue slides against hers—unhurried, coaxing, tasting the ruin I left in her. She kisses me back as if she needs it more than air, like this is the one thing she didn’t realize she was starving for.
Her lips part wider, tongue sweeping into my mouth, wet and sweet and fucking real in a way that wrecks me. I groan into her, deep and quiet, as her hands slide up my chest. Her fingers clutch my shirt, trying to fuse us.
She pulls me closer, tongue stroking mine, the kiss turning deeper and hungrier, but never rushed.
We savor it—the glide, the heat, the softness under the filth.
And for one moment, we stop pretending this is only about fucking.
This is more.
“Now… walk back in there with my cum running down your legs.”
She swallows hard, and her eyes flick behind the mask.
“Yes, My Wolf.”
I smooth her gown back into place. My fingers linger on her hips, and drift along the curve of her thigh before falling away. I adjust her mask and let my touch ghost down her jaw, refusing to break the spell too quickly.
Her cheeks flush with color, lips parted, chest still heaving. But I can already see her posture pulling tight, her armor sliding back into place. Poise, elegance, and composure—everything she wears so well.
But beneath it, I know what she’s still carrying.
“I’ll see you soon,” I say, letting my thumb brush the soft underside of her wrist before releasing her. She doesn’t look back when she steps away, but I watch her go.
Laurette slips back into the hum of the ballroom, as though nothing happened. Shoulders squared. Chin high. The fall of her gown flawless. Only the faint flush in her cheeks betrays her, but the mask covers that.
Her parents are in deep conversation with Richard. She slides into their circle, all polite smiles and poised charm.
No one pays attention. No one but him.
Jon David stands across the room, drink in hand, his stare locked on her. A dog on a scent.
His jaw is tight, suspicion etched deeply in every line of his face. He knows something happened. He can sense it, but he doesn’t know what. And it’s driving him insane.
I see it all from the shadows near the balcony doors. I watch him watch her.
He’ll keep guessing and obsessing. He’ll never know what she let me do. What she begged me for.
He had her once, but he’ll never have her again. Not while I’m still breathing. Not while there’s blood left in my fucking body. Not while she’s addicted to the way I fuck her.