Page 37

CHAPTER 37

CASPIAN

The Following New Year’s Eve

The Vermont winter air bites at my exposed thighs like tiny, vicious teeth, but I strut down Burlington’s streets like it’s a summer night in Phoenix. My fishnets might not be practical in this weather, but practical isn’t what I’m going for tonight. New Year’s Eve is for being noticed, and these legs were made for turning heads.

A gust of wind sends shivers rippling across my skin, making the spandex of my hot pants feel like ice against my ass. My breath clouds in front of my face, temporarily fogging the edges of my black masquerade mask. I adjust it with practiced fingers, ensuring the feathers still sweep dramatically above my right eyebrow. Mom would have loved this mask. She always said I had a flair for the theatrical.

The thought of her catches in my chest, a familiar ache that’s dulled over the past few months but never quite disappears. She’d also probably tell me I’m going to catch my death dressed like this, but then she’d help me arrange the mask just right and tell me to have fun. That was Mom. Practical advice wrapped in unconditional support.

I quicken my pace, my shoes crunching against the salt-crusted sidewalk. The sound echoes off old brick buildings, their windows glowing warm against the darkness. Burlington is nothing like Phoenix or Maplewood. It’s bigger than my adopted hometown but smaller than the sprawling desert city where I grew up.

The cold here feels different too, more urban and brisk compared to Phoenix’s dry heat or Maplewood’s gentle snowfall.

The neon signs of the club pulse ahead, their blue and purple glow bleeding into the night fog. The letters flicker and dance across the frosted windows, painting the waiting crowd in alternating waves of color. There must be fifty people in line, all dressed to the nines in their New Year’s Eve best, though most had the sense to wear coats over their party clothes.

I don’t slow down as I approach the entrance. The bouncer—a mountain of a man with a neat beard and kind eyes—looks up as I near.

I flash the VIP pass I scored through my position on the Maplewood Chamber of Commerce. Being a local business owner has its perks, especially when it comes to the network of discounts and special access we get at venues across northern Vermont.

“Happy New Year,” I say, holding up the pass. The bouncer nods, unhooking the velvet rope.

A chorus of protests rises from the line, but I keep my chin high as I slide past. The door handle is cold under my palm, and for a moment, I hesitate. Through the frosted glass, I see shadows moving, bodies pressing together in that universal language of desire and celebration. My heart thumps against my ribs, a drumbeat of anticipation.

The mask sits perfectly against my cheekbones as I move forward, each step deliberate and measured. My hips sway with natural confidence—the kind that comes from knowing exactly who you are and what you want. And tonight, what I want is simple. I want to lose myself in the arms of the only person who can make my body sing with pleasure and my heart flutter out of my chest.

The dancefloor throbs with bodies and bass, a living thing feeding on sweat and desire. Through the haze of artificial fog and strobing lights, I catch glimpses of bare skin and masked faces, everyone playing at being someone else tonight.

I weave through the crowd, letting the music guide my movements. The DJ is good, mixing deep house beats with vocals that speak directly to my blood. My fishnet-clad legs move on instinct, hips rolling to the rhythm as I find my spot in the press of bodies.

The mask makes everything feel different—more electric, more possible. Behind its protection, I can be anyone. The thought is intoxicating, or maybe that’s just the way the bass vibrates through my chest, making my heart sync to its persistent thrum.

That’s when I see him.

He’s wearing a black Venetian mask with silver filigree, the kind that makes you think of old-world nobility and secret affairs. His broad shoulders are wrapped in a fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. But it’s the way he moves that catches my attention—confident but controlled, like he knows exactly how good he looks but isn’t trying to prove it to anyone.

Our eyes meet across the dancefloor, and something clicks into place. He tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the connection, and I feel a smile spread across my face. The game is on.

I turn away, giving him my back, but I can feel his attention like a physical touch. The music shifts, something with a slower, dirtier beat, and I let my body respond. My arms lift above my head, fingers spread wide as I move my hips in a way that makes the most of these tiny shorts.

When I feel hands settle on my waist, I know they’re his. His touch is firm but not demanding, and he moves with me just like we’ve done a hundred times before. I lean back slightly, feeling the solid warmth of his chest against my shoulders.

“Will I get a kiss at midnight?” His voice is low and rich in my ear, cutting through the music with practiced ease.

I turn in his arms, meeting his eyes through our masks. “Only if you buy me a drink.”

His laugh is genuine, and he steps back, offering his hand. I take it, letting him lead me through the crowd toward the bar. His fingers are warm against mine, and that simple touch sends sparks of anticipation racing up my arm.

The bar is three deep with people trying to get their last drinks of the year, but my mystery man seems to know exactly where to stand. A bartender spots us immediately, and two minutes later, we’re holding matching glasses of champagne.

“To new beginnings,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

“To masks,” I counter, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “And what happens when they come off.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners—he’s smiling behind his mask. We’re standing close enough that I can smell his familiar cologne, that woodsy scent that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.

Around us, the crowd starts counting down. “Ten! Nine! Eight!”

He sets our glasses on the bar and steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushes over my bottom lip, and I part them instinctively.

“Seven! Six! Five!”

“Last chance to back out,” he murmurs, but we both know I won’t. I want this kiss like I want air.

“Four! Three! Two!”

I grab his shirt front, pulling him down to meet me.

“ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

His lips find mine as cheers erupt around us, and oh, these lips. I know the way they press against mine, the slight roughness of stubble against my chin, the confident sweep of his tongue. My hands tighten in his shirt as familiar heat floods through me.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “Happy New Year, baby,” against my mouth.

“Your place or mine?” I ask, though I already know the answer. He takes my hand again, and this time, when our fingers intertwine, it feels less like a game and more like coming home.

The crowd parts for us as we make our way to the exit, and I can’t help but laugh at the perfection of it all. It was a fun game. Playing at being strangers while our bodies remembered every touch, every kiss, every shared breath from before.

The cold air hits us like a splash of reality as we step outside, but his hand is warm in mine, and his eyes behind that silver-decorated mask are full of promises I know he’ll keep. We flag down a cab, and as we slide into the back seat, I anticipate what comes next.

The hotel room door barely clicks shut behind us before his hands are on me, and I’m pressed against the wall with a desperation that makes my breath catch. Our masks are still on, this final pretense of anonymity making everything sharper, more intense.

His mouth finds my neck, and I arch into the touch, my fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders. Through the window, the city spreads out below us, quiet and snow-covered, but in here, the air is thick with heat and want.

“The mask,” I gasp as his teeth graze my collarbone. “Take it off. I want to see you.”

He pulls back just enough to reach for his mask, and I do the same.

His smile is small and knowing as he removes his mask, revealing those familiar blue eyes I wake up to every morning. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, in that tender tone he reserves just for me.

“Hey, baby,” I reply, taking off my own mask and running my fingers through his hair. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He chuckles and pulls me closer. “Couldn’t stay away,” he murmurs.

Nate kisses me properly, deeply, like he’s trying to taste every moment we’ve been apart, which has only been a few hours since he left for the club before I did so we could play this game properly.

We stumble toward the bed, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers. My fishnets catch on his watch, and we laugh breathlessly as we work to untangle them. His shirt falls open, revealing the chest I know by heart—the scattered freckles, the light dusting of hair, the sensitive spot just below his right nipple that makes him gasp when I brush my thumb over it.

“God, I missed you,” he groans, helping me shimmy out of my hot pants. The fishnet tights follow, and then we’re skin against skin, everything familiar and new at once. His hands map my body like he’s reading Braille, finding all the places that make me shiver and moan.

I arch up as his mouth trails down my chest, my stomach, following the path of my hip bone. “Still perfect,” he murmurs against my skin, and the vibration of his voice makes me tremble.

“Nate.” I gasp as his tongue traces the outline of my cock. “Please.”

He reaches for the bedside table, where supplies are already waiting.

The click of the lube cap is loud in the quiet room. His fingers are confident and careful as they work me open, and I lose myself in the sensation, in the familiar stretch and the way he knows exactly how to curl his fingers to make me see stars.

“Ready?” Nate asks, though we both know I am. I nod anyway, pulling him down for a kiss as he positions himself.

The first push makes us both groan. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. His breath is hot against my neck as he starts to move, each thrust precise and purposeful, hitting exactly where I need him.

“Fuck, Nate,” I pant, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “You always feel so big. Fill me up so good.”

“I was made for you, Caspian,” he says and speeds up his pace. The bed rocks beneath us, the headboard thumping against the wall in a rhythm that matches our racing hearts.

I lose track of time, lost in the slide of skin on skin, the perfect angle of his thrusts, the way his hand wraps around me and strokes in counterpoint.

When I come, it’s with his name on my lips and his eyes locked on mine. He follows moments later, face buried in my neck, breathing words that sound like promises against my skin.

After, we lie tangled in the sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest. The city is still quiet below us, and the pretense of strangers meeting on New Year’s Eve has fallen away, leaving us with the truth we’ve both known all along.

He pulls me closer, and I can feel his smile against my shoulder. Outside, the first snow of the new year begins to fall, covering everything in a clean, white blanket. But in here, we’re warm and safe and together, and that’s all that matters.