Unmasked. Stefanie London

you haven’t asked for my name,” he said.

      Shit. She’d been too busy worrying about protecting her own identity that she’d momentarily forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to know him.

      “You’re awfully hung up on names,” she replied, walking to the edge of the balcony and peering down at the garden below.

      “And you’re awfully evasive.” He smiled, his head tilted slightly. She recognised that look; he was trying to figure her out.

      “Let’s just say that being able to wear a mask was the reason I decided to come here tonight.”

      The scent of gardenias floated past on a breeze. The balcony overlooked the garden rather than the courtyard, and she could see two people stealing away.

      Was it Imogen? Lainey tried to get a better look, but the haze of dusk made it hard to tell.

      “Are you hiding from someone?” he asked. “Or pretending to be someone else?”

      “A little from column A and a little from column B.” She took another sip of her champagne. “And that’s the truth. I’m not trying to be evasive.”

      “You can still be things even if you’re not trying.” His lip quirked. “Tell me, Ariel. If you’re not yourself tonight, who are you?”

      He was close. So close she could smell the cologne on his skin and the bare hint of his soap underneath. He’d used the same sandalwood soap since forever. The clean, woodsy notes were burned into her brain—and never ceased to shock her with a mix of memory and fantasy.

      The visuals played like a film reel in her head, flickering images from that day years ago when she’d been studying at Corinna’s place. She’d watched him strip down to his board shorts and dive into their pool. She’d imagined what would come next. Following him into the water, pulling him close, running her hand over his naked chest...

      “I’m no one.”

      He reached for her champagne and placed the two flutes on a table. Then he did the same with her clutch. It was like being stripped down, and her empty hands felt naked without something to do. “You are most certainly someone.”

      “Maybe I’m a figment of your imagination.”

      “I hope not.” His voice lowered, the sound rough yet silky. Like satin dragging over gravel.

      Her breath hitched as his fingertips came to her waist, confident and firm. With the dress sucking her in, his hands looked enormous against her. He could overpower her, control her. She wanted him to.

      The voice in her head shouted at her to press against him, but she wanted to draw this moment out. Stretch it like toffee and give her brain time to soak in every minute detail. This moment would have to sustain her for the rest of her life and become the thing she could cling to late at night. Her fantasy come to life. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—rush it.