Page 4 of Savage Suit

She laughed again. “Neither was he, but he was D’Artagnan’s mentor, an elegant nobleman who didn’t flaunt his wealth. He didn’t need to, comfortable with his place in society.” She slipped a swath of hair behind her ear. “But he was a deeply troubled man,” she whispered. “Filled with tragic secrets.”

My nostrils flared, and I wondered who she was. Even in my drunkenness, I would’ve remembered her from a previous meeting. Wouldn’t I? But for the life of me, I couldn’t recall the soft sensuality of her voice or her golden skin enhanced by straight, dark hair.

She turned back to me. “Am I right?”

“Perhaps.”

“Tragedy lives within everyone, doesn’t it?”

Women were to be revered and protected, loved, and cherished. If my father had adhered to chivalry, my mother might’ve been celebrating her milestone birthday.

Grief, loneliness, alcohol, and lingering anger at my brothers led me to insanity. The invasion of my privacy didn’t matter. Sliding over, I tugged the girl into the crook of my arm. She didn’t resist.

She turned to me, lifted, and pressed her lips against the base of my neck. Desire shot through me, and I tightened my hold on her. Her warm breath sighed against my skin. I groaned, my engorged cock throbbing. I stayed still, not wanting to interrupt the moment. And, yet, I wanted to continue our conversation and hear her infectious laughter and musical voice. I wanted to ask what tragedy had befallen her. But then mutual grief, or talk of it, would be a mood killer.

She trailed kisses up my neck, her mouth soft and warm. The feathers on her mask tickled me while the crystal abraded my skin. I considered removing my mask and then hers, then left them be. Hers was a little askew but still in place. And maybe, this anonymity was what we both needed. We could be other incarnations of ourselves. Carefree. Even a little decadent.

Her lips brushed mine in a slow, sensual touch. I drew in a sharp breath, my dick hurting.

Gasping, she pulled back and stared at me. She scrambled to her feet, her breasts heaving. Our sudden separation left me with an odd sense of loneliness.

“Oh my gosh,” she squeaked, “I’m so sorry.” She backed away.

I grabbed her arms and halted her. If she wanted to leave, I wouldn’t detain her, but if believing she’d offended me drove her away, I’d set her straight.

“No, it’s fine,” I muttered, guiding her back to the bed and pulling her beside me again. Settled against the pillows with her in my arms, I relaxed. “I’d be fucking thrilled if you did it again. If you don’t mind, of course.”

I looked at her as she tilted her head to me. She frowned. “Why would I mind?”

“Unless I’ve missed my guess, you’re as fucked up as me. I have been drinking for hours.”

She giggled. “I’ve been drinking a while,” she confessed. “It might have been hours. It might’ve been days.”

I laughed. “Days?”

“Maybe not days. I don’t think I drink very often, and I don’t drink such expensive champagne. Out of my price range.”

Another tidbit to her identity and an interesting one. She didn’t socialize in my circles.

“I have a champagne bucket list.” She laughed again. “No pun intended.”

“Noted,” I told her. “You’re telling me you have a list of champagnes you’d like to taste?”

She snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “Exactly.”

“Give me the names of your top two.”

“A Taste of Diamonds is the crème de la crème. I don’t need to name any others on my list. I can’t pronounce its French name right now, but it’s expensive. Ex. Pen. Sive,” she said, laughing wildly.

“You can pronounce it under different circumstances?” I asked, intrigued.

She giggled. “Oui, monsieur.Ma…mère…” She hesitated. “Nouvelle-Orléans. She was from New Orleans.”

“Ah. You would say:Ma mère était de la Nouvelle-Orléans.”

“You know French?” she gasped. “My father always said I should learn Spanish, German, or Mandarin, due to the economic benefits. He probably added German because of his Irish and German roots. My mama’s grandfather only spoke French until he was seven or eight. She was immensely proud of our Afro-Creole heritage.”

“Your explanation should’ve been, ‘Ma mère était de la Nouvelle-Orléans. J’ai un héritage afro-créole et j’ai appris le français grâce à elle’.”