Page 8 of The Medic (Dominion Hall #6)

SLOANE

T he ceiling had crown molding like a wedding cake and a chandelier that cost more than some condos. But I couldn’t focus on that. Not with the way my heart was still thudding in my chest. Not with the way his body was tangled with mine, skin to skin, breath to breath.

I stared up at the ceiling like it might offer clarity—or maybe forgiveness.

It didn’t.

Beside me, he was silent. Not cold, not awkward. Just … still. Like a man who knew how to let the aftermath settle without rushing to fill the space. His hand rested against my thigh, warm and heavy. Possessive.

We were still wearing our masks.

The thought made me laugh—quietly, breathlessly. The sound startled even me.

He turned his head, the edge of his mask rustling against the pillow. “Something funny?”

I swallowed a grin. “I was just thinking about how ridiculous this all is.”

“Because of the masks?”

“No,” I said, shifting just enough to glance at him, “because I don’t even know your name and we just defiled someone’s four-thousand-thread-count sheets.”

He smirked. “Five thousand. Egyptian cotton. Langford doesn’t do anything underwhelming.”

“You know her?”

“Not biblically,” he said, stretching an arm behind his head. “But I recognize her taste in chandeliers.”

That made me laugh again. A real one this time. Full and unfiltered.

The kind of laugh that had no place in a room this pristine.

We were both still catching our breath, sweat drying on skin that had no business touching in the first place.

But the whole thing felt … oddly light. Charged, sure.

But not heavy. Not like a mistake. More like the kind of secret that would still make me smirk years from now, whenever I passed a man in a tux with a jaw that could crack granite.

I wasn’t the kind of girl who carried guilt.

I liked sex. Always had. And not the choreographed kind with polite lighting and feelings woven into every thrust. I liked the kind that left me dizzy.

Breathless. On the edge of something dangerous.

It wasn’t about filling some emotional hole.

It was about blowing off steam before I imploded in silk and highlighter and quiet rage.

But even for me, this? This was a first.

No names. No awkward post-date recap. Just chemistry, heat, and a shared disregard for rules.

And God— he was good . Confident without being cocky, strong without being too rough.

The kind of lover who didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask for permission with words because he already knew the answer from the way your body arched into his.

His hands were capable—like they’d built things and broken them.

His mouth? Criminal. The way he kissed me should’ve been illegal in at least seven states.

I’d felt it in my knees. In my bones. In places I wasn’t even sure I wanted to name.

And somehow, with the masks still on and a mansion full of Charleston’s finest twirling cocktails downstairs, it hadn’t felt cheap. It had felt … right in a way that made absolutely no sense.

I didn’t know his name.

But I knew how he made me feel.

I sat up, the silk sheets slipping to my waist. “This party is terrible.”

“The worst,” he agreed, rolling to his side, eyes raking over me like he couldn’t help himself. “Not even good champagne.”

“I didn’t even have any,” I said. “I walked in, saw too many people I used to fake-smile at, and walked out again. Straight into this mess.”

“I helicoptered in.”

I blinked. “You what?”

He stretched again, lazy and maddeningly smug. “Didn’t want to deal with traffic.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

He gave a casual shrug, a grin playing at the edge of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you, if you could?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I might have.

I leaned back on my elbows and let myself enjoy the moment. The high. The strange, quiet buzz of post-orgasm bliss in the middle of someone else’s mansion. What were they going to do—throw me out?

But then, as if conjured, the bedroom door burst open.

“What the hell?—”

No.

No.

It wasn’t Momma. It wasn’t even Quentin.

It was worse.

Lydia Langford.

In head-to-toe black sequins, a feathered mask perched on top of her head like a damn crown, she stormed into the room with the fury of a thousand whispered scandals.

“Oh, my God ,” she shrieked, eyes bulging as she took in the scene—me, very naked; him, also very naked; the sheets, absolutely ruined. “Are you serious right now? My bed?”

I grabbed a pillow and barely managed to cover myself. “I—uh?—”

“You what?” she snapped. “Thought this was the VIP suite at a strip club?”

The man beside me sat up slowly, unbothered, like this was just another day for him.

“Evening, Lydia,” he said, voice calm and deep. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Her jaw dropped. “You.”

That single word dripped with recognition. And fury. And something that might’ve been fear if I didn’t know Lydia Langford better.

She didn’t say his name.

But she knew him.

“I should’ve known it was one of you the second I saw that damn helicopter on my lawn,” she snapped. “You walk in like you own Charleston.”

He gave her a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Only parts of it.”

I blinked, staring between them.

What the hell?

Lydia turned on me next. “And you—God, of course, it’s you. What is it with you thinking rules don’t apply?”

I lifted my chin. “I didn’t know it was your room.”

“This is my house!”

“Well, I didn’t see your name on the pillowcase.”

“Oh, don’t be clever,” she hissed. “You’re not good at it.”

He let out a low whistle beside me, clearly entertained.

“I should have you both thrown out,” Lydia snapped.

He raised a brow. “Go ahead. But you might want to check with your security team first.”

Lydia’s mouth opened, then closed.

Interesting.

She backed away slowly, hands on her hips, her mouth twitching like she was suppressing an entire monologue. “Just get out,” she finally spat. “Before I decide to call the press.”

“You’d hate the angle they’d catch from the lawn,” he said, standing with the blanket around his waist.

Lydia huffed, spun on her heel, and stalked out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the chandelier.

I blinked.

He looked at me. “Still glad you came to the party?”

I stared at the door.

Then burst out laughing. “Absolutely.”

And for some reason, I didn’t stop.

We laughed as we dressed, tugging on formalwear that now felt like a bad joke.

My dress was wrinkled beyond hope, one of the straps still twisted from where he’d pushed it off like it offended him.

His shirt had lost a button—maybe two—but he didn’t seem to care.

Just shrugged it on and knotted his tie loose like a man who’d never worn it tight in the first place.

“This is surreal,” I said, stepping into my heels like I hadn’t just been naked in someone else’s bed.

He glanced over, his mouth tilted in that same maddening smirk. “It’s Charleston.”

I reached for my mask, smoothing it over my face. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”

He paused, one cufflink half-fastened. “Where’s the fun in that?”

I should’ve pressed. I was curious—more than curious. He was rich enough to chopper in, well-connected enough to make Lydia Langford stammer, and good enough in bed to make me forget what planet I was on.

But I didn’t push.

Because he was right. It was more fun this way.

I stepped toward the door, smoothing my hair. “Well, mystery man. Thanks for the memories.”

He pulled something from his inner jacket pocket—cash. A thick, folded stack of hundreds that he left neatly on the vanity like it was part of the decor. “For the sheets,” he said. “And the chandelier’s emotional trauma.”

I choked back another laugh. “Subtle.”

“Always.”

We opened the door together and slipped into the hallway like spies escaping a very glamorous crime scene. There were voices in the distance, strings swelling from the ballroom, the hum of high society spinning beneath chandeliers and half-truths.

We didn’t walk together.

We didn’t say goodbye.

We just split off in opposite directions, two masks vanishing into the night.

I found a mirror in the powder room off the main hall and reapplied my lipstick with a steadier hand than I expected. My pulse was still fast, my hair still a little too wild, and my thighs still tingling in ways that made it hard to focus on things like small talk and networking.

I was supposed to be down there playing nice—chatting up hedge fund heirs and whispering compliments about art I didn’t like. I was supposed to be visible, graceful, strategic. I was supposed to make the right kind of impression.

But all I could think about was that man upstairs.

That mouth. That voice. That cocky little shrug like he’d known from the moment I walked in that he’d ruin me.

And the worst part?

I kind of hoped I’d see him again.

Even if I wouldn’t know it was him.

There was something about him—familiar, almost. Like I should’ve recognized the angle of his jaw or the way he walked like the world didn’t get to tell him no. But I couldn’t place him. Not exactly. And that bothered me more than I wanted to admit.

Because if Charleston had a man that good-looking, that confident, and that rich—I should’ve been introduced. Hell, Momma should’ve been diagramming our wedding plans on a place card by now.

So who the hell was he?

Not knowing was half the thrill.

It hummed under my skin like a secret I didn’t want to give back.

Like wearing silk under a stiff blazer—just for me, just enough to make the day bearable.

Mystery wasn’t usually my thing. I preferred clean lines, curated captions, and enough control to make chaos look intentional.

But this? This felt like stepping off a ledge on purpose.

I wasn’t ready to climb back up just yet.

I headed back out into the hallway, my heels tapping softly against the marble, each step more performative than the last. I knew how to walk into a room like I owned it—mask on, spine straight, lips painted like a weapon.

But my body still buzzed. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d touched me.

The way he hadn’t asked, hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t needed to.

I needed to do something. Redirect the energy. Ground myself in a persona that made sense.

So I pulled out my phone.

Scrolled.

Scrolled more.

Then I paused.

There it was—the photo I’d taken earlier.

The Langford lawn, bathed in low evening light, and dead center: his helicopter, sleek and smug like it had dropped in from a Bond film.

I hadn’t thought much of it when I snapped it—just something absurd and theatrical, like everything in this world—but now, it felt personal. Intimate. Proof.

I cropped it tight, just enough to obscure the tail number, then opened Instagram.

Caption:

“Nothing says ‘masquerade’ like a mystery man and his getaway ride. #HeliYeah #MaskedEncounters #OnlyInCharleston”

I hit post and smiled.

Let them speculate. Let them wonder.

Because I was wondering, too.

About the man whose voice still echoed in my head.

About the hands that still haunted my skin.

About the fact that, in a room full of men trying to impress me, the only one I wanted didn’t even give me a name.

And somehow, that made him unforgettable.