Page 10 of Masked Seduction

“Oh, not much,” she says casually. “Watched a couple go at it in a candlelit room. Got tied up. Had sex in a mirror-lined hallway with Marcus while a few people watched.”

I choke on my wine. “Claire!”

“What?” She shrugs again. “It was hot. No pressure. Marcus never looked at me the same after. In a good way.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

She nudges me with her shoulder. “And you’re curious.”

I have to admit I am. I mean, I’ve had lovers. A few one-night stands. But I’ve never gone looking for sex like it’s an experience to chase down. Never walked into a building with the intent of getting laid. It’s different. Intoxicating.

“I don’t know,” I murmur. “What if it’s not safe?”

“It is,” she says, suddenly serious. “Bouncers are everywhere. No one touches you without permission. You can leave at any time. You can do nothing and just watch. It’s totally your call.”

I stare at the screen again, biting my lip in indecision.

Claire puts her hand on mine. “There’s zero pressure, Jen. I promise. We can be wallflowers. We can flirt. Or we can just drink overpriced cocktails and mock creepy guys in velvet blazers. But you need something. Something different.”

She’s not wrong.

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

Claire beams. “Yes!”

“What do we wear to a sex club?”

She grins. “Masks.”

We stop at a boutique tucked just off Fremont Street, one of those artsy little shops where every piece feels like it belongs to a different fantasy. The walls are lined with velvet capes, leather chokers, and masks—so many masks. Feathers. Lace. Glitter. Leather. A masquerade of secrets waiting to be worn.

Claire makes a beeline for a sleek silver number, filigree swirls curling up over her brow like wings. It clings to her face in delicate lines, cool and sharp, just like her. “This one’s mine,” she declares, holding it up. “Total femme fatale shit.”

I wander around, fingers drifting past rows of black lace and crimson velvet, until one catches my eye. It’s navy blue, the same shade as the night sky just before it swallows the sun. Midnight threaded with silver. The edges flare out into tiny horns—subtle, but mischievous. It’s soft to the touch but holds its shape like something made to be worn boldly.

“This,” I say quietly, lifting it to my face. “This feels right.”

Claire eyes it, then grins. “Mysterious.”

We pay and head back to my apartment. The mood has shifted.

In the mirror, I pull on my dress—a fitted black number I’ve never worn before. Not clingy, exactly, but it hugs me in placesthat make me feel a little shy. And a little thrilled. The kind of dress that demands attention. The kind of dress I bought thinkingmaybe someday.

Apparently, someday is now.

I slip on the mask last. The horns catch the light. The navy brings out the warmth in my eyes.

Claire whistles low. “Damn, Jenna.”

I turn toward the mirror again, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. Sexy. Confident. A little dangerous.

I grin.

Anything could happen tonight.

And that’s exactly what I want.

CHAPTER 4