The second the stranger spots me, his black eyes settling on my face, forget the lamp or the flame or the moth, it’s like a bolt of sizzling lighting coming straight from the sky to land right in the middle of my dry soul. A thunderclap follows, echoing through the room, and I’m not really sure that’s the roar of conversation anymore.
I don’t want to look at him. I want to lift a shoulder flippantly and stalk away like I’m not affected. Like underneath this dress my nipples aren’t so hard they’re diamond dust infused, like my special occasion lace panties aren’t soaking, like my knees aren’t trembling and my lady cave and other lady parts aren’t tingling like crazy.
I want to make a fast exit, but I’m held in place by those black eyes. I can’t move. Not even when he starts crossing the room, parting strangers with an athletic ease that makes my mouth go bone bloody dry.
Does it not physically hurt to be that beautiful? When he inhales air in, does it transform into something else when it’s expelled? Something sexier for having been in his lungs? I bet that the carbon dioxide he breathes out is a little more magical than anyone else’s.
I shake my head so hard that it nearly dislodges my mask and I have to reach up and fix it. That action is the last thing I do before the god from across the room is just a few feet away. He stops, his black eyes raking over me, and I can feel myself incinerating on the spot and all I can think is what a waste of an expensive vintage dress that would be.
“It’s a lovely evening,” the masked god says to me, and good gah, it talks. That voice is like black velvet, as black as his suit and his eyes. “I’m-”
“No!” My head nearly wobbles off my neck as I shake it. I nearly dislodge my mask again, and I have to set my finger on it to discreetly push it back into place. “No names. Isn’t that the point of these things? The mystery?”
One big shoulder raises up and one dark brow follows. Or at least, I imagine it does, even though the mask covers them both. For all I know, he could have dyed his eyebrows bright pink. That makes me smile, and when his lips curl up in response, defying gravity and breaking hearts all over the room, even those belonging to women who impossibly enough aren’t looking at him, I nearly shatter like a dropped crystal glass.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, and I marvel at how smooth he is. Not just his voice, but his actions. He’s not holding his glass anymore.
I shrug like I’m not dying of thirst. For him. Yes, I’m definitely thirsty over here and that annoys me to the extreme. I was just having a fishy fish conversation with myself, and now this? “That’s basically the universal conversation starter. Everything flows from there, doesn’t it? You get me a drink. We drink it. We talk about nothing. You get me another. We become slightly inebriated, and our inhibitions fall. We discuss more nothing. You get me another and we decide that charity functions aren’t as exciting as the inside of some dark closet or my place or your place, and in the morning, we both wake up with splitting heads and bellies full of sour regrets.”
His lips wobble again, and I’m so drawn in that I want to pinch the inside of my wrist just to break my damn dream world here. I can feel my nose puckering beneath my mask. Note to self, masks really ruin a good scowl.
“That’s very cynical,” he says easily.
I can feel my eyes starting to twitch. Yes. Both of them. At the same time. “Yes, well, I have a right to be. And sorry, I don’t accept drinks from incorrigible, corrupt, dirty butthole strangers.”
Oh boy, what’s wrong with me? Did I really just say butthole? Here goes my elegant untouchable lady vibe.
There’s more eye twinkling and more lip twitching from him, and my god, more tingles on my end, which are not a good thing. I wish for once my lady cave would obey my commands and stand freaking down. But no. Instead, I’m turned instantly into a tattered, mothy bag of hormones and simpering eye twitches.
“Lucky for me, I’m just a butthole. Not incorrigible, corrupt, or dirty.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. In my experience, hot guys- which this one clearly is, don’t have enough of a sense of humor to call themselves a butthole. Now I’m intrigued, dang it. It took all of two seconds and one primally scalding look to send all my carefully crafted lectures about being off men out the window and do a real number on the defenses I keep trying to shore up.