Unmasked

I laugh. “Let’s see what I can do to prove her wrong.”

I look down, examining the problem. “You picked a great spot to get stuck,” I note, wondering if we can get her free before the lights change and traffic starts streaming past.

“It wasn’t on purpose, trust me,” the woman sighs wistfully. “Maybe the universe is telling me not to go to this party.”

“Not a fan of masquerade balls?” I ask, kneeling down beside her.

“Not a fan of blind dates—oh!” She startles as I reach out and take hold of her bare ankle. She flails a moment, then grabs hold of my shoulders for balance.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to rotate her shoe to lever the heel out. But it’s stuck firmly in place. I look up. “We might have to leave it.”

“I’m hoping you mean the shoe and not my whole foot,” she jokes.

“No amputation necessary.”

“But I’ll be hopping around on one leg all night.” The woman’s face falls.

“Cinderella managed it.”

“Cinderella had a pumpkin chariot to take her home, not the L train.” She smiles again, a wry, teasing look, and I’m suddenly struck with one simple fact.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the way I usually find women beautiful. If I have a type, it’s for the polished, glossy, career woman. Women who strut confidently around the city in towering heels without once getting stuck in a grate; women with sleek hair and perfect makeup, the kind who have reminder alarms on their phones, and schedules so busy that I can be sure they won’t take offense when I have to cancel our dinner plans because something came up at work, or leave halfway through a party to see to some disaster on one of my construction sites.

Self-sufficient. Low-maintenance.

Perfectly in synch with my career and goals.

This woman is none of those things. Her hair is already falling down around her face in soft blonde curls, her eyes are full of self-deprecating laughter, and there’s something frazzled and scatterbrained about the way she looks down at her shoe and back at me.

Still, I feel a powerful rush of something. Some heat or strange awareness just looking up at her, framed there in the streetlights like a classical painting. Botticelli, or Raphael.

A car horn breaks through my thoughts. It speeds past, barely a few feet away, followed by a stream of traffic, barely slowing as the cars pass us here in the middle of the street.

Wake up! I scold myself. Musing about pre-Raphaelite paintings is going to get the both of you killed.

“We need to get you out of here,” I decide, as a kamikaze cab driver careens past, dangerously close.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking down at me. “You’re getting your tux all dirty down there on the ground.”

“Don’t worry about me.” I run my hand up her calf without thinking. She inhales sharply, and suddenly, my touch seems intimate.

Her skin is soft and smooth. Her ankle seems delicate in my hands. I lift slightly, and move the heel of her shoe back and forth to dislodge it from the grate.

“It’s no use.” She sounds weirdly cheerful. “I’m doomed. You go ahead to the party. I’ll flag down a cab and go home.”

“Not so fast,” I say, rotating the heel. Suddenly, her shoe pulls free. She stumbles off balance, and I have to quickly stand and grab her before we both go tumbling into oncoming traffic.

We both freeze. My arms are locked tight around her, pressing her warm body against my chest. She gasps, her face just inches away, lips parted wordlessly, those blue eyes wide in surprise.

Not just blue, I realize now. Her eyes are almost a warm grey, fringed with pale lashes. I stare at her, thrown for a moment. Her perfume drifts around us, something light and sweet like wild roses or—

“Honeysuckle,” I murmur.

She blinks.

“You smell like honeysuckle,” I repeat. A part of me is howling that I’ve suddenly become a dumb sap, but it’s overridden by the feel of her body, soft and yielding, like she belongs in my arms.

The woman’s gaze drifts to my lips. Suddenly, kissing her is the only thing I want to do.

It’s madness. We’re still standing in the middle of a busy street, with traffic streaming past. I don’t even know her; and what I do know tells me she’s the last woman on earth I should be kissing, but somehow, it’s not even a choice.

I’m a man who prides himself on rational thought. I calculate every risk and weigh every consequence, thinking four steps ahead before I ever make a single move. It’s made me who I am today, kept me from making stupid, rash decisions, getting sidetracked by romance when I have more important things on my mind.

But right now, there’s nothing else in the world. Nothing but this stranger pressed against me, her lips parted invitingly, her cheeks flushed—and a telltale flash of desire in her eyes.

I want her.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t need to question why.

With a spark of determination, I tilt her head up towards me and close the distance between us, claiming her mouth in a deep, hot kiss.

She doesn’t hesitate. In an instant, her arms are up around my neck, and her body is melting even closer against me. It’s a rush of heat and sweetness, edged with the thrill of the unknown. Heat surges between us, and just like that, this wildfire of a moment is raging out of control.

I grip her waist tighter, crushing silk under my palms as I bring her hard against me and demand more. Now. Her mouth parts eagerly to taste my lips, and I groan, sliding my tongue deeper into her mouth. She tastes of cinnamon and honey, sweetness cut with an intoxicating spice. Desire pounds in my bloodstream as I drink her in, savoring every moment even as my body demands more.