I put a hand on his broad chest and watch it there, my fingers flat against the strength beneath his shirt. He's more tangibly male than the men I usually interact with, as if he's been baked and hardened into steel. If this is what men in their thirties are like, I've been missing out. Or maybe it's just the kind of men who frequent places like the Gilded Room?
"I don't know if I'm daring enough for this," I admit.
His smile is reassuring. "We'll just have to try and see. Another rule of the Gilded Room is that there are no expectations."
I slide my hand up to his neck, tentatively running my fingers across the rough, five-o'clock shadow that coats his square jaw. "There are some things we can try from the comfort of this couch."
"I agree. But let's get rid of this first…" He reaches up slowly, giving me time to object. I don't, holding still as he unties the mask and slips it off my face. "There," he murmurs. "Much better."
We hover, nearly touching, as the sweet sensation of closeness washes over me. My eyes flutter closed as he braves the distance between us and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is competent and warm, and my body reacts to it like a flower to the sun. Heat spreads through my limbs and my mouth opens to him on a soft exhale.
His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, his hand curving around my thigh in a tight grip. My nerves melt away in the face of this, no match at all against his skill, his heat, the way my body warms.
This is the easiest thing in the world.
He lifts his head, just enough to speak. "I don't think kissing will be an issue," he murmurs.
I reply by kissing him again, capturing his answering chuckle against my lips. My hand slides up into his hair, the thick strands silky through my fingers. He growls into my mouth as I tug.
This is a risk worth taking. There's no telling when I'll have a man like this touch me again, a handsome man who exudes power and competence and dark, sly wit.
"I'm not this girl," I tell him.
His hands grip my hips, pulling me tight against him. "I know," he says, voice hoarse. "It only makes me want you more."
The words send delicious shivers over my skin. High on him, on my own bravery, I sling one leg over his lap and straddle him. We might be concealed in this dark alcove, but we're still at a party, and there are people milling about.
His hands run up the sides of my dress, ghosting past my breasts. "Kiss me again, Strait-laced."
"Not my nickname," I tell him, and he grins. I cover it with my lips and we're lost once more to the chemistry between us, to whatever magic happens when his lips and mine meet. My desire pounds in tune to the beat of the music, hypnotic and sensual. Beneath me, the hard length of him is evidence of his own. The surprise makes me break away.
He doesn't skip a beat, shifting to my neck instead. A large hand cups my breast and smooths a thumb through the fabric, finding the tight point of my nipple without effort. "I want you," he says, lips against my skin. "Do you want to find an unoccupied room?"
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. "There's still a third performance. I heard there will be pyrotechnics."
"I think," he murmurs, "that we have all the fire we need right here."
His arm is strong around my waist as we walk through the party. We pass the naked woman on the couch kept busy by the two men pleasuring her. She catches me watching and gives me a wide, smug smile. Look what I caught.
I lean into the stranger at my side. "Not for you?" he murmurs.
I shake my head. "I think that requires more hedonism than I have in me."
"You know what they say," he says. "Under the right circumstances, anyone will do anything."
"See, it's you saying things like that that chalks you up in the mafia column." Turning the corner to a dark corridor, we pass the open door to a hotel room… only it's not unoccupied. I avert my eyes immediately from the naked bodies writhing on the bed. "Oh my God."
I can make out his smile in the dim lighting. "Not everyone enjoys it like that. A lot of the doors here are closed, after all."
"That's good."
"But this one isn't," he says, stopping at a door that's slightly ajar. The bedroom inside is bland and tastefully decorated. But most importantly? It's empty.
I walk past him into the room. The bed looks massive behind me, decked in innocuous-looking hotel linens. "I wonder what the Gilded Room tell the hotels they rent. Do they know what's going on?"
He has a hand on the half-open door, a wry smile to his lips. "Oh, they know. What do you think, Strait-laced? Door open or closed?"
I sink down onto the bed. "Just us, I think."
He shuts it with a decisive click, but the smile on his face lets me know he hadn't expected another answer. "Absolutely fine by me, gorgeous."
We stare at each other for a few long breaths. No words, just eyes, and with each passing moment the nerves and desire in my stomach grows sharper.
"Do you need to get used to me again?" he asks.
I lean back on my hands and give a simple nod. Lips quirked in wry humor, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it back. Large hands reach up to undo the buttons of his shirt. I watch as inch after inch of broad, olive-skinned chest comes on display, muscular and smattered with hair.
He stops when the shirt hangs off him. "Keep looking at me like that."
"Not difficult to," I breathe.
His shirt joins the jacket behind him, and my eyes follow the grooves of his abs down to the leather belt. His wide chest rises with every breath. I feel like I've accidentally wandered into one of my deepest, darkest fantasies. Because everything about him, from the dark, commanding eyes to the square jaw and broad shoulders, conveys power. He might not be mafia, but he is something, this man, and here he is with me, looking like he can't wait to have me. But waiting he is, because for as much power as he usually commands, in here women are the ones calling the shots.
I've never felt so empowered in my life. The thrill of it runs like a second pulse beneath my skin. "You're too far away," I tell him. "I want to touch you."
"Then touch me."
His words are soft and silky, but the challenge underneath them is unmistakable. I close the distance between us and reach out, my fingers trailing across his chest. He sucks in a breath as I trace the faint V of his hipbones. Strong grooves of muscle move beneath the skin.
"You still haven't asked the question," he murmurs.
My hands come to rest on the leather belt, my eyes finding his. "Will you sleep with me?"
"Not hypothetically?"
I shake my head in mute response.
His answer isn't in words, either. Not as he takes my hair in his hands, the heavy, dark weight of it, and pushes it to the side. I turn for him and he finds the zipper of my dress, pulling it down in one smooth motion. The black sheath releases me from its grasp.
His eyes darken as they travel over my body, my underwear, the matching lace bra and panties. Perhaps I'd told myself I would just watch, not play, but… a small part of me had made sure I'd be ready. Just in case.
"So gorgeous," he murmurs, hands closing around my waist. The competitive streak in me roars to life. I want to rise to this challenge, to him, to please him like I know he'll please me.
I want to be the best sex this man has ever had.
I kiss him with the strength of that conviction, and he responds in kind, pulling me tight against him. One kiss flows into the next, each of them tightening the ache inside. We break apart when his hands find the buckle of my bra.
I hold my arms out as he slides it off, eyes watching as the cups release my breasts. He sucks in a dark breath and reaches out, hands replacing the fabric. They might be a pain when I'm shopping for sports bras, but they know how to dazzle.