But sex nostalgia is a thing, evidently, and I’m feeling it big time. When I turn into the ballroom and drink in the sight—revelers in top hats and tails, gowns and ruffles, satin and black silk, with masks everywhere—the nostalgia disappears entirely.
I’m not longing for the past anymore. The past is the present once again, and it’s a feast for the senses from the clink of glasses to the chimes of laughter, to the floral perfumes mingling with the buttery aromas of whiskey and the sweet pear scents of champagne.
I inhale it all.
As the mellow notes of “Night and Day” fill the room, a tuxedoed man wearing a simple black mask walks my way, giving an inviting nod as he nears me. “Good evening,” he says in a familiar baritone. “Welcome to The Scene.”
Then he walks right past me.
Damn, this mask I’ve got on is good.
I clear my throat. “What does it take to get a fucking cocktail around here?”
He immediately spins on his heels and shoots me an apologetic smile. “I’ll send a server to you right away, sir.”
I rein in a grin, working the asshole act hard. “How about you take my drink order right now?”
Service is important to my buddy Tevin. But so are manners. I haven’t quite crossed the line yet, but I’m toeing it.
“Of course. What would you like?” he asks.
“Pabst. Served upside down. In a keg. It was the spring of—”
He groans in laughter. “You asshole.” My college friend claps my back affectionately. All is forgiven. “It’s been…” Tevin’s gaze drifts down to my left hand. Naked.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I say with some resignation, some relief, then waggle my bare fingers.
He lifts a brow in question. “Are congratulations in order?”
If he’d asked me a year ago when my wife called it quits, I’d have said no fucking way.
But now that the ink is newly dry on the divorce papers, all I can say is a big, truthful “yes.”
Maybe a hell yes. I’m finally crawling out of the black hole of my marriage.
“Then congratulations, man. Especially since you’re back here. So I’d say the drinks are on me tonight,” he says, even though this isn’t a cash bar. We’ve all paid handsomely for the beverages. “Macallan?”
“You know it,” I say, and Tevin heads off to the bar. He runs these parties with his wife, Kiara, who’s surely here somewhere, likely in a costume that makes her easy enough to recognize too.
As I wait for him to return, I hang back at the edge of the ballroom, checking out the crowd. I’m feeling at home a little more, thanks to the vibe. That’s the point. A familiar atmosphere but a chance to meet new people with the same tastes I have.
Like my goddess. There’s something about her…
With a laser focus, I survey the party for the beauty, enjoying that no one recognizes me. Anonymity is a wonderful thing, a lovely escape from the weight of the day and the heaviness of the past. It’s a cloak, too, to search for her.
She’s not mingling though. She’s not at the bar either.
The music shifts to “Rhapsody in Blue,” and I turn toward the grand piano set in the corner of the room, the romantic tune calling out to me.
Yes.
That’s her—behind the keys.
And just look at her. I stare unabashedly at her masked face—those lips, those fucking lush lips—for another few seconds till Tevin returns, hands me a tumbler, then says, “To your return to the land of the living. You were a phantom for some time, man.”
Can’t argue with him there. I lift the glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
An hour or two later, I’ve refreshed my drink, chatted with old friends, exchanged pleasantries with new ones, and tried valiantly, but failed miserably, to not stare at the woman at the piano.
She bites the corner of her cherry-red lips as she plays, moving her body sensually with the music. Her hair, too, is driving me wild, all curls and waves twisted up on one side. She’d better have a break really fucking soon.
I take a final swallow of my Macallan when she looks up again from the ivories. Her masked gaze meets mine from across the softly lit room. Electric candlelight plays with shadows, but even in the half-light, our eyes lock. There’s a catch in the music, a faint pause, then her lips press together.
Like she’s swallowing a sigh.
Or maybe the pause in the tune was intentional, because when she ends the number, she segues into the familiar opening notes of “Music of the Night.”
I’m not the only phantom here. But hell if I’m going to let any other man take his chance. Screw waiting for her to take a break.
Waiting is for other men.
A server sails by, and I set my empty glass on the tray, then weave through the crowd, past taffeta and finery, past promises of late-night trysts, past men kissing women, and women kissing women, and dark deeds negotiated in darker corners.
“May I join you?” I ask when I reach the other side of the piano.
She glances around, scanning for someone. Tevin? Kiara? Or just permission to…interact? That I can give her, since I know my friends won’t be bothered by the musician talking to a guest. “They won’t mind.”
She swallows, then asks skeptically, “Are you sure?”
“I promise.”
She’s quiet for a beat, clearly thinking while she keeps playing. She’s artful with the tune, extending the opening notes, letting them repeat like a soundtrack to her thoughts, perhaps. “And why should I believe you?”
To her, I’m just a stranger in a mask. “Because I don’t want you to get in trouble.” I keep my answer simple, suspecting that’s what she needs.
“Why’s that?” It’s another challenge, but her tone’s softer. Maybe she’s letting down her guard.
I’m not about to admit that the way she wears that costume, like it’s who she is deep inside, caught my eye from down the block. Then, when I arrived in the ballroom, her music caught my ear. She’s a woman in tune with her senses. That’s what I’ve missed. That’s what I crave desperately.
She deserves a direct answer though, and, perhaps, proof that I’m worthy of her. “Ever since I saw you walk past those doors, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”
“Oh,” she says softly, then dips her face. “You saw me walk in?”
“Couldn’t look away,” I say, and her lips curve up. My god, I want to wipe the red lipstick off her mouth right now. “Still can’t.”
Life is short. Time is precious. I’m not here to fuck around.
She raises her face, meets my eyes, and plays on. “I saw you too.”
I smile at the acknowledgement of our instant attraction. “Good. Then, I ask again—may I join you?”
With a flirty smile, she plays past the opening notes at last. That’s a hell of an RSVP, and I take it, moving around the piano to the bench. I drink in the sight of her, from her creamy skin to the graceful column of her throat, to the mouth that I’m obsessed with already.
And her magnificent tits.
She ought to be worshipped in bed, and then, ideally, teased all night long.