Masked Stranger Claims His Best Friend's Wife

The grand ballroom of the Ravenwood estate pulsed with candlelight and sin. Crystal chandeliers dripped golden fire over a sea of silk, velvet, and feathered masks, bodies swaying to the low throb of a string quartet that somehow sounded filthy. Bianca stood near the marble staircase in a gown the color of fresh blood, the deep V of the bodice plunging almost to her navel, the slit racing high up one thigh so that every step flashed bare skin. Her own mask was a delicate confection of black lace and gold filigree, covering the upper half of her face yet leaving her full mouth and the elegant line of her throat completely exposed. At twenty-eight she had never looked more fuckable, and she knew it.

Barrett had thrown the masquerade as their fifth-anniversary spectacle, inviting half the city and every business contact worth bleeding dry. He was somewhere across the floor right now, laughing with investors, his own silver wolf mask tilted back so he could drink. Bianca had already smiled and murmured all the right things; now she simply wanted air and a moment without performing.

She slipped toward the shadowed alcove beneath the balcony, the press of perfumed bodies thinning, when a tall figure stepped into her path.

He was solid night. Broad shoulders filled a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the kind of body that looked carved rather than grown. The mask covering his face was sleek, matte black, molded to sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, leaving only a hard mouth and the glint of dark eyes visible. He did not ask permission. He simply closed the distance until the heat of him brushed the front of her gown.

“Running away already, little wife?” The voice was low, roughened velvet, unfamiliar and yet something in the cadence made her pulse stumble.

Bianca’s breath caught. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.” A gloved hand rose, not quite touching the bare skin above her bodice. “But I’ve watched you all night. The way that dress clings when you walk. The way your nipples tighten every time the air conditioning kicks on.” His eyes dropped, bold, lingering on the hard points pressing against crimson silk. “You’re not wearing anything underneath, are you?”

Heat flooded her cheeks and lower, a treacherous slickness already gathering between her thighs. She should have stepped back. She should have laughed and returned to the crowd. Instead she lifted her chin, playing the game the mask demanded.

“That’s a dangerous assumption for a stranger.”

“I’m not a stranger to wanting what’s already claimed.” He leaned in so the words brushed the shell of her ear. “Barrett’s a lucky bastard. He gets to peel this dress off you later. Gets to push those pretty thighs apart and bury himself where I’ve been starving for years.”

The name of her husband on that unknown mouth should have killed the spark. It only made it burn hotter. Bianca’s pulse hammered in her throat. She didn’t recognize the voice completely—masked, distorted by deliberate roughness—but something about the height, the scent of expensive sandalwood and clean male skin, tugged at memory. Franklin. It couldn’t be. Barrett’s best friend since college, the man who had stood beside them at the altar, the man who had spent countless dinners smiling politely while his eyes stayed carefully neutral. Franklin, who had never once crossed a line.

Yet the anonymity of the masks turned every line into smoke.

“You talk like you know him,” she whispered.

“I know everything about him. Including how often he leaves you wet and unsatisfied while he chases the next deal.” A thumb finally traced the edge of her bodice, grazing the soft inner curve of her breast. “I’ve imagined filling that emptiness for so long it hurts. Right here. In this room full of people who would ruin him if they knew.”

Her knees went soft. The crowded, hedonistic air seemed to thicken, laughter and music wrapping around them like a conspirator. Franklin—because it had to be him, the forbidden knowledge slamming into her with dizzying force—knew exactly who she was. The mask let him say the things he had swallowed for years. And the same mask let her listen.

“You’re insane,” she breathed, but she didn’t pull away when his hand slid lower, palm settling possessively on the bare skin of her waist through the open side of the gown. “Anyone could see.”

“Let them.” His mouth hovered a fraction from hers. “They’ll only see a stranger taking what he wants. They won’t know it’s the man who has jerked off thinking about your cunt every night Barrett was out of town. They won’t know how many times I’ve almost told you at Christmas dinners, at the lake house, every fucking time you hugged me and your tits pressed against my chest.”

Bianca’s fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket without conscious thought. The confession poured liquid fire straight to her core. She could feel how hard he was already, the thick ridge of him brushing her hip through layered fabric. Her own body answered shamelessly—nipples diamond-hard, inner thighs slick, clit pulsing in time with the distant music.

“Franklin—” The name slipped out, half question, half moan.

He went very still. Then a slow, dangerous smile curved the hard mouth beneath the mask. “So you do know. Good. I want you fully aware whose cock is about to ruin you.”

He backed her deeper into the alcove, until cool marble kissed her shoulders and his larger body caged her completely. One gloved hand rose to her throat, not squeezing, simply holding, thumb stroking the frantic beat of her pulse. The other slipped through the high slit of her gown and found bare, wet heat. Bianca gasped as two thick fingers dragged through her folds, gathering the shameless evidence of her arousal.

“Soaked,” he growled against her lips. “For your husband’s best friend. Filthy little thing.” He pushed those fingers inside her in one smooth thrust, curling, stretching. “I’ve waited years to feel this. Tight. Hot. Fucking perfect. Barrett has no idea how close I’ve come to bending you over his own dining table.”