Page 26 of Masked Seduction

I know damn well I’m not done with her.

I shouldn't want her again.

But I do.

And I’ll have her.

CHAPTER 9

JENNA

His chest rises and falls beneath me, all that solid muscle stretched out under my cheek. My fingers drift absentmindedly across the ink etched over his right pec—sharp black lines, an eagle with a crown, wings flared, claws out. It looks old-world. Regal. Dangerous.

Just like him.

I stare at it for a moment longer, trying to commit every detail to memory before lifting my head.

What the hell just happened?

I had sex. With a stranger. Masked. In a private club room. I didn’t even get his name, just some evasive charm and a body that could’ve been sculpted by the gods.

And it was amazing.

No, amazing isn’t the right word. That manhandledme. Like he already knew every inch of me. Like he’d been starving and I was the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste. I should feel… ashamed? Nervous?

Instead, I feel like my bones have been melted into the cushions and I want him again. Right now.

A wicked part of me wants to slide my hand between his legs, take hold of him, and show him exactly what round two is supposed to look like. But then I hear it—his breathing. Slow. Even.

He’s asleep.

Figures. Of course he gets to sleep like the dead after wrecking me into a state of post-orgasmic enlightenment.

I glance at his masked face. God help me, I want to see him. Just a little peek, just enough to know if he’s actually as gorgeous as my brain wants to believe he is under all that leather and mystery.

But I don’t move.

Because if I see him—if Iknow—then this stops being whatever it is. A wild night. A secret. Something I can hold onto, pull out of the vault when I need a little personal time and a very specific memory.

His voice. It slipped a few times. Not just a deeper timbre but a shift into Russian. One word when he was deep inside me and it made things even hotter. Now it nags at the edges of my brain.

Why does he feel so damn familiar?

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or maybe my subconscious is trying to justify sleeping with a stranger by pretending he wasn’t one. But there’s something there, something I can’t quite place. Like I’ve seen him before. Heard him before. Like a dream you only half remember upon waking but it leaves fingerprints on your day.

Still, I don’t lift the mask.

Instead, I slide carefully out of bed—sore in the best way, legs still shaky—and start pulling on my dress. It’s wrinkled, and it smells like sex and whiskey. I slip it on, ignoring the ache between my thighs and the absurd smile threatening the corners of my mouth.

I glance at him once more before I leave. Naked. Stretched out. Beautiful.

Burn that into my memory.File it away for another day.

I close the door with a soft click and walk back to the front of the club. My heels click across the tile like a metronome keeping time for the chaos still pounding in my chest.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face. But what it felt like to be wanted like that is addictive.

The hallway feels endless. I pass door after door, each one muffling sounds that leave no question as to what’s going on behind them. Moans, cries, the soft slapping of bodies meeting, gasps of breath tangled with whispered filth. One room bursts briefly into laughter—a woman’s high giggle layered over a man’s growl—and I can’t help but wonder if I sounded like that only a few minutes ago.