A Millionaire at Midnight by Naima Simone
Copyright © 2017 by Naima Simone. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
“The prince slid the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot, and of course it was a perfect fit. So then he carried Cinderella to his waiting carriage and his castle where they wed. But the prince ended up being a cheating asshat, and Cinderella, who really wasn’t all that sweet in the first place, moved out, taking the prince for half his kingdom and his entire fleet of carriages. Which served him right because he should’ve kept his dick in his damn pants in the first place. The End.”
Morgan Lett finished the fairy tale—or her embittered version of it—with great relish and satisfaction. Even the heavy sigh emanating from the speaker on her cell phone couldn’t dim her grin.
“Really, Morgan?” Her best friend Khloe Hunter’s drawl rolled over the line. “When you said you wanted to read the baby a bedtime story, I was kind of expecting the more traditional, profanity-free, less Real Housewives of Ever After account.”
“What?” Morgan shrugged, lounging against the back of the limo’s black leather seat. The vehicle paused at a stop light, and she stared out the dark, smoked windows to the mixture of old churches and glass and steel towers that made up Boston’s Copley Square neighborhood. “I think my goddaughter deserves to hear the unvarnished truth instead of some watered-down story with sewing mice and crystal castles that are probably mortgaged to the hilt with Rent-to-Own thrones and crowns.”
A soft snuffling sound echoed in the limo, and a warm sensation like sweet, buttered syrup slid through her chest. “Aww. See? Sinead agrees with me. Don’t you, sweetheart?” Morgan cooed to the newborn baby girl whom Khloe had just given birth to a couple of weeks earlier. Morgan had traveled all the way to Dublin, Ireland for her goddaughter’s entrance into the world and had fallen in love at first sight with her pink, wrinkly, gorgeous face. She sighed. “I miss you guys.”
“I know. I miss you, too. We’ll be in Boston in a few weeks so my parents can see the baby,” Khloe said. A heavy pause emanated through the trans-Atlantic call, and Morgan gritted her teeth, knowing the question that would come even before her friend voiced it. “Morgan, are you okay?”
Are you okay? How are you? Is there anything I can do for you? All variations of the same question, which was: How fucked up are you since your fiancé dumped you for your stepsister?
As if that could be answered with a simple reply.
If she said, “I’m hanging in there. It’s not the easiest situation in the world to deal with, but I am,” people would think she was lying.
But if she said, “Well, honestly, I’m not going to be satisfied until I have his balls pried off with a rusty spoon,” then they would look at her like she’d gone all Wives with Knives on them.
With either impression, they wouldn’t be wrong. Finding your fiancé and stepsister declaring their undying love for one another and sharing a passionate kiss kind of made a girl swing from morose to numb to rage-a-holic in alarmingly short intervals.
So instead, Morgan just said, “I’m fine.” Khloe was her closest friend, but admitting how stupid and humiliated she felt was tough. Damn near impossible. “Listen, I’m almost to the hotel, so I have to go. But I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“All right. Have fun tonight,” Khloe said and sighed. “Part of me wishes I could be there with you. After all, it was the bachelor auction that brought Niall and I back together. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find your Prince Charming tonight.”
A year ago, Morgan had coerced Khloe into attending the Rhodonite’s Society annual Masquerade Bachelor Auction. Donations from the charity event provided much-needed funds to the Blake Literary Foundation…and served up ten bachelors on silver platters. Khloe had found the man of her dreams. The chances of Morgan finding similar happiness? Pretty much nonexistent.
Morgan snorted. “Uh, pass. I’m only going because Mom is forcing me to attend. This is just the latest party in a whirlwind of parties. She wants to show a united front and mitigate the embarrassment of having a daughter who was dumped by her high-society fiancé. And what better way to do that than force me to prey on another man?”
Her mother loved her—of that Morgan had no doubt—but contrary to what she believed, no number of appearances at philanthropic galas, political fund-raisers, and cocktail mixers could strip away the coat of humiliation that rejection had painted on her.
Instead, they only presented people with more opportunities to gawk and gossip. Seeing the former untouchable darling of Boston’s social elite brought low gave them a lot of fodder.
The only saving grace was that each party allowed her the opportunity to schmooze and network for Phoenix House, a nonprofit organization that assisted women who were fresh out of abusive relationships or homelessness in gaining their independence and solid footing in a fast-moving world. What had started as writing a check for a charity had blossomed into volunteering—and from there into a passionate advocacy. Through her time there, she’d met such brave, loving, self-sacrificing women who were survivors…warriors. So yeah, Morgan’s suffering did have one silver lining.
No. Make that two.
Cynthia and Troy, her stepsister and fiancé—ex-fiancé, damn it—hadn’t attended any of these parties. Keeping a stiff upper lip could only go so far.
“Morgan,” Khloe murmured.
“Nope,” she said, slicing a hand through the air although her friend couldn’t see the gesture. God, she hadn’t meant to say all that about her mom. Hadn’t meant to reveal she gave a damn. “Not going there. And I’m here and have to put on my resting bitch face, so talk to you soon.”
With another sigh, Khloe conceded. “Call me, and let me know how it went.”
Morgan hit the end button and tucked the phone into her postage stamp-sized sequined purse. The limo slowed to a halt in front of the luxury hotel where the bachelor auction was being held. Butterflies slam-danced in her belly, and she inhaled a deep breath, hoping to suffocate the little beasties.
One more night to get through. You can do this. It can’t break you.
“I’m fine,” she whispered as the chauffeur opened the rear door. Was she practicing or trying to convince herself? She didn’t know, but if she had a fifth of Vodka for every time she’d repeated those two words, she’d be drunk off her ass and really fine.
With a cool smile for the benefit of the press gathered around the hotel entrance, she accepted the chauffeur’s offered hand and stepped out of the limousine.
People adorned in furs, gowns, glittering jewels, and tuxedoes strolled into the covered hotel entrance. Boston’s financial titans, philanthropists, socialites, celebrities, and fashion icons had decked themselves out in their finest to attend one of the fall season’s most popular events.
In the past, she’d looked forward to the gala. Her stepfather had considered himself a humanitarian, so Morgan shelling out thousands of dollars on masked bachelors hadn’t been a catalyst for one of his “learn the value of a dollar” lectures.
Still, those sit-downs had been their only long, heartfelt conversations. He’d saved the “How was your day?” and “What’s going on in your world” talks for his daughter, Cynthia. Her, he’d adored; Morgan, he’d tolerated because of his wife, Morgan’s mother.
And he couldn’t have proven that more in the reading of his will four months ago.
If there was one thing Gerald Carrington loved more than his daughter and wife, it was getting the last word.
Burying all thoughts except those about getting through the night ahead, she shored up her polite social mask and erected emotional barriers that would make Fort Knox look like a kid’s snow fort.
Let the charade begin.
An hour later, that social mask bore minute cracks and fissures. The result of well-meaning How are you’s and smirked Such a shame’s. But worst were the pitying glances. They scraped at her like a coarse blanket over tender, exposed skin.
“Mom, I’m going to the restroom. I’ll be right back,” she murmured to her mother, squeezing the other woman’s hand.
Katherine Lett Hudson Carrington excused herself from her conversation with a friend before shifting her attention to Morgan.
“Is everything okay, honey?”
“I’m fine.” Jesus. At some point she was going to have that tattooed on her forehead, so when people asked, she would just point to it. Exhaling a deep breath, she nodded. “I just need a little bit of air.”
Blue eyes identical to the pair Morgan met in the mirror every morning softened.
“Don’t take too long. The auction is about to start.”
“I won’t.” Offering her mother a tight-lipped smile, she threaded through the crowd toward the exit. Glimpsing a waiter, she switched directions and headed toward the large French doors at the back of the ballroom. Air. Swiping a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server, Morgan swallowed a large gulp. If her mother had caught her, she would’ve admonished Morgan about champagne being sipped not downed like a keg of beer by a frat boy. But in cases like these—cases where a person skipped real close to the bitch-slapping edge—alcohol should be consumed in large quantities.
Yes, she chugged more champagne. Alcohol and fresh air. Didn’t matter if the cold November night would turn her into a Popsicle. She needed to escape. Stat.
“Morgan.”
Oh fuck.
Plastering a smile on her face, she slowly pivoted and faced Angela and Chrystal Mooreland. Aside from their vibrant red hair, the sisters looked nothing alike—Angela, tall and slender as a rail, and Chrystal, petite and sporting the curves of a Botticelli model. Oh yes, there was one more thing the sisters shared, Morgan reminded herself, gritting her teeth as she spied the avaricious gleam in their eyes.
Gossip. The more salacious and spiteful, the better.
“Hi, Morgan,” Angela greeted her again, sympathy oozing from her voice. “How are you?” she asked, drawing out “you” until it stretched into three syllables.
“Hello, Angela, Chrystal. I’m fine,” she said, cringing inside. “How are you?”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to pretend with us,” Chrystal cooed. “We know how difficult all this…messiness must be.”
“Yes, you can tell us the truth.” Angela tilted her head, the syrupy tone conflicting with the steely glint in her gaze. “I don’t even know how you’re here. I mean, if my sister betrayed me with my fiancé…” She shook her head.
“I would never do that to you, Angela,” Chrystal said. “Sisters just don’t do that to one another.”
“Well, the heart wants what the heart wants,” Morgan murmured, cocking an eyebrow. “Or, at least, that’s what I hear.”
“You must be so humiliated,” Chrystal continued, placing her hand on Morgan’s arm. “I heard you caught them in bed having sex. Is that true?” The other woman pressed closer, her grip tightening. “Did you and Cynthia really fight over Troy?”
Oh for the love of… Morgan rolled her eyes and pried Chrystal’s fingers loose. “No. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the rumors of a drag-down catfight are false. Girls Gone Wild wants their refund back, actually,” she drawled.
“Well, of course, she has to say that,” Angela pseudo-whispered to her sister as if Morgan wasn’t standing right there.
Jesus Christ, how had she ever considered these two friends? Then, a more sickening thought crowded close on the heels of the previous one. Had she been this mean? Yes, she’d enjoyed a good piece of gossip as much as the next person, but had she delighted in the pain of others, too? Bile churned in her stomach, and for a second, she feared the champagne would make a reappearance.
“It’s a shame.” Chrystal tsked. “First your stepfather leaves everything to Cynthia, and now she steals your fiancé. It’s all so cruel.”
Morgan fought to control her polite, faintly bored expression.
Inhaling, she submerged the pain under an icy sheet of anger.
Anger over the insensitivity and malice from her so-called friends.
Anger over feeling like a helpless victim when she was the one who’d been wronged.
Anger that people expected her to wear a huge, red D for “damaged” on her chest when she had nothing to be ashamed of.
And it felt a damn sight better than grief and humiliation.
She smiled. “Please. Cruel is a dramatic word. In the end, it’s just dick and money. And both are easy to come by.”
Both sisters blinked, their lips forming small Os.
Chrystal chuckled, recovering faster than her sister. “Look at you putting on a brave face.” She shook her head. “We know you have to be devastated, Morgan.”
“Do I?” Morgan arched an eyebrow. “Why? Did Troy have something that plenty of other men don’t? Maybe the reason I’m here tonight is to start the search for someone else who has more of…” she paused, allowed the smile on her mouth to widen, “everything.”
Her reason for attending the auction had nothing to do with finding another man. No thank you. That love shit was for Hollywood, fairy tales, and the rare couples, like Khloe and Niall, and her parents before her father died. Yeah, it existed; but true, sustaining, unconditional love was as rare as a unicorn. Or a wooly mammoth. Or a plastic surgery-free Playboy bunny.
And love devastated. Morgan had loved Troy. In her head, they’d made sense. She’d easily imagined the two of them together years down the road sitting quietly together, sharing comfortable silences and warm companionship. And realizing she’d never been enough all along had crushed her. No way in hell was she opening herself to that kind of pain again. Screw love.
Shutting down that particular train wreck of thoughts, she refocused on Thing 1 and Thing 2.
“So you’re trying to convince us you don’t care about Cynthia and Troy?” Angela scoffed.
Morgan shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint you. Sure, I was upset for a minute. I mean, I’d just sent in the check to have the Backstreet Boys perform at our reception.” Again, she lifted a shoulder. “But what’re you going to do? Besides, this city is full of CEOs and millionaires. Where there’s one, there’s another, and most are ready and willing to get laid…and agree to have Nick Carter sing “As Long as You Love Me” for our first dance. As a matter of fact, there are ten of those ready and willing men here tonight. What can I say? We can’t all marry for love like you did, Angela.” Cocking her head to the side, she pointedly glanced in the direction of Angela’s husband, who resembled Hugh Hefner’s older brother. “Can we?”
Red suffused the other woman’s face, and her mouth twisted into an ugly snarl. “At least I have a husband,” she sneered, then twirled away and stalked off in a huff of righteous indignation.
“You can be such a bitch, Morgan,” Chrystal spat before trailing after her sister.
Meh. She’d been called worse. And two ducks in a bucket, fuck it. That had felt good.
Turning around, she headed back for the ballroom. Funny. She no longer needed that fresh air—
“Oof.”
She slammed into a wall, quickly shooting her hands up to prevent a face-plant into plaster. “Son of a—” she grumbled, but the gentle but firm grasp of fingers circling her upper arms and steadying her cut off the complaint. O-kay. Maybe not a wall. She blinked. Not unless the hotel’s décor included stark white dress shirts and black tuxedo jackets.
Slowly, she lifted her head. Black bowtie. Taut golden skin stretched over a strong neck. A clean-shaven jaw and chin that could’ve been carved out of granite. A shockingly carnal but stern mouth with a slightly fuller bottom lip that appeared as if a woman had just been nipping at it only moments earlier. A straight, arrogant slash of nose and equally patrician, sculpted cheekbones.
And… Oh God.
A pair of stunning, silvery-grey, thickly lashed eyes. Luminescent. The flowery word popped into her head, and though it seemed ridiculous to attach such purple prose to this man with his face of honed edges, cutting angles, almost harsh sensuality, she couldn’t banish it. When she was a kid—when her father was alive—her family would vacation every summer on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire. The color of his eyes reminded her of the shimmering surface of the softly rippling lake right after dusk when the moon reflected off the waters. A fist of emotion tightened her throat. She hadn’t thought of those summers of carefree joy in years…
Crazy how a lovely, grey gaze glinting with…with…
Disgust?
Icy contempt dispelled any lingering warmth inside her with an arctic blast.
Well, damn, all she’d done was bump into him. But he stared at her as if she were a flea-bitten stray that had strutted up to him and pissed on his tuxedo pants leg.
“Excuse me,” she apologized, stepping back and out of his hold. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“It’s fine.” His hands fell away from her as if he couldn’t abide one more moment touching her. Still…she fought not to close her eyes. God, she could roll around in that voice like bikini-clad strippers in a batch of fresh mud. Just coat herself in it. Even the concise, clipped tone couldn’t tarnish the deep, dark timbre. “You were…preoccupied,” he added, the same disdain that hardened his stare coloring his words. His flinty gaze flicked over her shoulder in the direction the Terrible Twosome had disappeared before resting on her again.
And that quickly, his glacial attitude made crystal-clear sense.
The last part of her conversation drifted back to her. “…this city is full of CEOs and millionaires. Where there’s one, there’s another, and most are ready and willing to get laid.” She smothered a cringe. Damn. That had probably sounded awful. Can you say “gold digger”?
Usually, she wouldn’t have cared about explaining herself, but for some reason, she wanted to melt the ice in those silver eyes. That same elusive logic had her longing to see a smile curving those sensual lips.
“I think you may have misconstrued what you might’ve overheard…”
A dark eyebrow arched high. “I doubt it.”
Surprise at the abrupt interruption winged through her. What the hell… Irritation—no anger—surged hot and heavy inside her. Whether it was at him for his arrogant contempt or at herself for giving a damn about his opinion of her, she couldn’t say. Yeah, she could. Screw him and the high horse he rode in on. He didn’t know her… No one knew her.
She grinned, and at the same time, treated him to a cool, withering gaze that she’d learned to perfect right along with her knowledge of which dinner fork to use.
“Oh good.” She sighed. “For a second there, I was afraid you might believe I was only after a man’s money.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “When the truth is I want his money and ovary-exploding orgasms. Those two together are so hard to find, you know what I mean?”
Patting his shoulder, she stepped to the side and continued toward the ballroom.
Prick.
She loosed a low chuckle. And here she’d thought she wouldn’t have any fun this evening. Putting Judgy McJudgy Pants in his place was her definition of fun.
Fresh air forgotten, she located her table just as the lights flickered, signaling the beginning of the auction. Slipping into the chair next to her mother, she picked up the goblet of water next to her plate.
Music streamed into the room, and she snickered at the Las Vegas-meets-cruise ship tune, earning a quelling glance from her mother. She shrugged. What could she say? It was cheesy.
The lights in the ballroom dimmed once more, and a large spotlight zeroed in on the right end of the wide stage that dominated the front of the room. A woman emerged from the wings, her arms spread wide, her hips swinging from side-to-side, working the stage like a runway. She twirled, her smile beaming bright, her dark hair fanning out along with the bottom of her otherwise tight sequined dress, before she came to a halt in the center of the raised platform.
“Welcome to the Rhodonite Society’s Twelfth Annual Masquerade Bachelor Auction,” the bedazzled emcee announced. “And welcome to a wonderful night filled with lavish and exotic dates, fun, and ten of Boston’s most handsome, eligible bachelors. Every penny of the proceeds will be donated to the Blake Literacy Foundation, which raises awareness of illiteracy as well as provides programming, tutoring, and technology to Boston’s underprivileged youth.” She nodded, as if giving her stamp of approval to the applause that filled the air. “Yes, a very worthy cause. Now”—she paused dramatically—“without further ado, let’s bring on the bachelors!”
She strutted to the side, and the spotlight swept across the stage and settled on the tall, masked man who crossed the stage in a black tux that seemed tailor-made for his heavily muscled frame. Striding to the center stage, he struck a pose that he’d probably picked up from a GQ magazine. He should’ve left it there.
“Our first bachelor is a Boston native, born and bred. Though his career keeps him travelling seven months out of the year, he is a true”—pause and wink—“Patriot when it comes to his hometown.” A chorus of laughter and whistles erupted from the audience at the emcee’s not-so-subtle hint at the bachelor’s occupation. She couldn’t fault Bedazzled, though. If people suspected they were bidding on a professional football player, that knowledge would drive the price up. Especially by those women whose lifelong dream was aspiring to be a WAG, a Wife and Girlfriend of an athlete. “His hobbies include camping, cooking, and reading literature classics such as Of Mice and Men, The Great Gatsby…and The Hunger Games.”
More chuckles, and she snorted. Katniss rocked. Everyone knew that.
“The lucky woman who wins him will enjoy the date of a lifetime,” the gushing emcee continued. “Three days and two nights in,” dramatic pause, “Maui! Yes, a long weekend filled with sunbathing and swimming on Hawaii’s most notable beaches, snorkeling, hula lessons, luaus, and of course, the famous nightlife. It’s a luxurious dream date and can be yours in just seconds. Let’s open the bidding. We’ll start at $6,000. Six. $7,000. Do we have—wonderful! We do indeed have seven…”
Morgan popped her paddle in the air, driving the price up from $8,500 to $9,000. After the bid reached $9,500, she dropped out and let the other women duke it out. She’d dated a football player in the past, and well… She believed in charity, but putting up with an athlete, much less possibly getting involved with him, wasn’t worth that much money. The sport always came first, then his ego. And the only thing that would keep him faithful was if scientists somehow came up with an erectile dysfunction implant. After several minutes, the winning bid of $15,000 was declared, and a woman who appeared barely legal enough to vote, much less bid, giggled in victory with her group of friends at a nearby table.
With a wave, the first bachelor exited, and the second strolled onto the stage. More bachelors, flirty introductions, and furious paddle battles followed, and Morgan engaged in every skirmish. Even her mother shot her a “what are you doing?” glance, but she ignored it. People wanted something to gossip about; she would give it to them.
“And now for bachelor number nine,” Bedazzled cooed.
Another tall, masked man appeared on the side of the stage. But that was where the similarities ended. The others had strutted or strolled across the stage, bravado evident in every stride and pose. But this man…stalked. Sinuous, graceful, controlled…sexy. As if that control and sensuality wasn’t limited to just his walk but included other areas. Areas like a bed, sweaty, twisted sheets, and sturdy bedposts.
Even his black tuxedo, which almost every man in attendance wore, appeared different. The way this man’s tux stroked his wide shoulders, emphasized his lean waist, and embraced those powerful thighs… No, this man wore his monkey suit as if he’d been born to it…as if it sighed in pleasure for being able to grace such an amazing body. Hell, she was sighing.
His white mask might’ve concealed his face, but it only enhanced the natural confidence that exuded from him. He didn’t need the posturing that previous bachelors had employed. No, he just stood there, hands in his pants pockets, the stance fairly shouting, “Take me or leave me…but we both know you’re dying to take me.”
And he wouldn’t be wrong…
Giving her head a shake, Morgan reclined in her seat. What the hell? Was he a snake charmer or something? Speaking of snake… Her gaze dropped to the front of his pants… Oh for godsakes. That pun was bad—even for her. Disgusted, she shifted her attention back to Bedazzled.
“Bachelor number nine originally hails from New York, but he has recently changed zip codes and is glad to call Boston home. An admitted workaholic, he confesses that his other bad habits include falling asleep at the office, leaving his clothes on the floor, and having an inability to pass up a Harry Potter book or movie.” The audience laughed at the last bit, and Morgan shook her head. Like who could pass up Harry and the crew? “His ideal woman will have the generous heart and patience to look over all his faults.” More chuckling. “The lucky bidder who wins this bachelor tonight will enjoy a three-night, three-day mini-vacation in beautiful Punta Mita, Mexico. You’ll stay in a luxurious villa complete with an oceanfront infinity pool, spa, two beach clubs, and golf courses. Your every need and desire will be catered to. This sounds so exciting and romantic.” The emcee sighed. “Now, we’ll open the bidding at $7,000. Do I have seven? Yes, we do! Eight?”
Morgan threw her paddle up, offering $8,000. A low-grade hum set up under her skin. Excitement? Desire? She didn’t take time to analyze it, but damn if it didn’t have her leaning forward in her chair, determined to win this bachelor for her own. If anyone deserved a break, she did. It’s the trip and not the bachelor that has you squirming in your seat, her inner-bitch taunted. Riiiight. With a middle finger to her conscience, she rejoined the fray of paddles. Ten thousand. Twelve thousand. The price went higher and higher, but she was determined not to lose. Curiosity and a sense of…urgency she couldn’t explain drove her to win. Maybe it was the need to discover if this man’s face matched the rest of him. Or maybe it was the subtle churning in her stomach at just the thought of another woman walking away with him tonight. Which made absolutely no sense. She had no claim on him other than her flying paddle.
They were at $15,000 now, and impatient to end this war, Morgan flicked her hand in the air and called out, “$17,000.” Okay, so she’d committed a slight faux pas by jumping the bid, but so what? She was taking no prisoners…except for the masked bachelor on the stage.
“Well, okay then,” Bedazzled crowed, not in the least fazed by her leap in price. “We have a generous seventeen. Do we have $18,000? No?” A pause, and then she grinned. “Sold to number 56 for $17,000! Congratulations! Wow, that one was heated, wasn’t it?” She fanned herself, winking as bachelor number nine exited.
As the emcee moved on to the introduction of the final bachelor, Morgan’s mother leaned over, settling a hand on Morgan’s forearm. “Feel better?” she asked, perfectly arched eyebrow lifted.
“Immensely.” Morgan grinned.
For the first time since she’d walked in on Troy and Cynthia and their tender moment of love, the sense of defeat lifted off her shoulders. She’d won. Something. Someone. Yes, it was a shallow, small victory. But, God, it was a win.
Too soon—and not soon enough—the auction ended. In moments, the men filed back onto the stage and the women—and one man—who’d outbid their competitors moved forward to claim their spoils.
Morgan’s belly fluttered as she rose from her table. Foolish to be so anxious about a stranger, and one whose face she’d never seen. But logic held no sway over the raptors currently creating wind tunnels in her stomach.
Even among tall, wide-shouldered men, she easily spotted him. The men had come down to stand in front of the stage. She moved forward until she was face-to-face with him. Heart pounding, she extended her hand, smiling.
“Hello. I believe you belong to me. Morgan Lett.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he grasped hers, and she barely managed to swallow a gasp. Heat swirled inside her, channeling from her hand, up her arm, and expanding to all points north and south. A low, throbbing cadence echoed between her legs, matching the rapid pulse inside her chest.
Christ, a simple handshake shouldn’t cause this kind of chemical melee. She hadn’t felt anything so visceral since…since…
Oh shit, it couldn’t be…
Releasing her hand, her bachelor grabbed the bottom of the mask and, as if in slow motion, lifted it, revealing a hard jaw and chin, a firm but carnal mouth, a sharp nose, and—
Gorgeous, storm-wild eyes. Very familiar gorgeous, storm-wild eyes.
The judgy prick.
Goddamn.
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