Dripping For The Enemy (Part 1)

The ballroom pulses with low music and the clink of expensive champagne glasses. Crystal chandeliers throw golden light across masks and gowns, but I feel like I’m suffocating in the middle of it all.  

I tug at the edge of my silver mask, making sure it’s still secure. The backless black dress hugs my body tighter than I expected when I slipped it on earlier, the fabric cool against my skin. Richard would lose his shit if he saw how much of my back it exposes. Perfect. That’s exactly why I wore it.

Six months since Tom fucked my colleague in our bed. Six months of pretending I’m fine, smiling at family dinners while my stepfather lectures me about responsibility and “not embarrassing the Harrington name.” My mother just sits there, quiet as always, choosing peace over me. 

Tonight I’m done playing the good stepdaughter. I slipped away from our table some minutes ago, needing air that doesn’t taste like obligation.  

I’m leaning against a marble pillar, nursing a glass of champagne, when I feel it — someone watching me. Not the casual glances I’ve gotten all night. This feels heavier. Intentional.

I turn my head slowly and there he is.  

Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a perfectly tailored black suit. A silver mask covers the upper half of his face, chiseled and elegant, but it does nothing to hide the intensity in his dark eyes. He stands a few feet away, completely still, like the crowd parts around him without him even trying. Power rolls off him in waves. Not loud. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.  

Our eyes lock. My stomach tightens.  

He doesn’t smile. He just tilts his head slightly, like he’s deciding something. Then he starts walking toward me.  

My grip tightens on the champagne flute. Run, a small voice whispers. But my feet stay planted.  

He stops right in front of me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne — something dark and expensive. His voice is low, smooth, with a rough edge that sends heat sliding down my spine.  

“You’ve been pretending to enjoy yourself for the last hour,” he says. No greeting. No small talk. “It’s not working.”  

I lift my chin, trying to sound unbothered. “Maybe I’m just picky about who I enjoy myself with.”

His lips curve slightly under the mask. “So am I.”

He plucks the glass from my hand and sets it on a passing waiter’s tray without looking away from me. His fingers brush mine for half a second. It’s nothing, but my skin prickles like he just ran electricity across it.  

“Dance with me,” he says. It’s not really a question.  

I should say no. I should walk away and find somewhere safer. Instead, I hear myself answer, “One dance.”  

He takes my hand and leads me onto the floor. The moment his palm settles on my lower back, bare skin meeting warm fingers, my breath catches. He pulls me in closer than necessary, his body solid against mine as the music shifts into something slower, heavier.

He moves like he owns the rhythm. Like he owns the space. Like he already owns me.  

“You’re tense,” he murmurs near my ear. His breath is warm. “Let go.”  

“I don’t let go for strangers,” I reply, but my voice comes out softer than I want.  

His hand slides a fraction lower on my back, fingers pressing just enough to make me aware of every inch of contact. “Then maybe you need a better stranger.”  

Heat pools low in my belly. I hate how easily my body reacts to him. His thumb strokes a slow circle against my skin, right above the curve of my ass, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.  

We dance through two songs. Every turn, every shift of his body against mine feels deliberate. He keeps that maddening control — never rushing, never letting me pull away more than an inch. By the third song, my nipples are tight against the thin fabric of my dress and I’m embarrassingly wet. All from a damn dance.  

His mouth brushes the shell of my ear again. “You’re soaking through that pretty dress and we’ve barely touched.”  

My cheeks burn. “You don’t know that.”  

“I can feel how you’re breathing. How your pulse is racing right here.” His fingers graze the side of my neck. “Tell me I’m wrong.”  

I swallow hard. I can’t.  

He pulls back just enough to look at me through his mask. Those dark eyes burn. “Come with me.”  

My heart slams against my ribs. “Where?”  

“Somewhere I can touch you properly.”  

I hesitate for half a second. Then I nod.  

He doesn’t smile in triumph. He just takes my hand again and leads me through the crowd like he already mapped out the escape route. We slip out of the main ballroom, down a dimly lit corridor, and into a private suite at the end of the hall. The door clicks shut behind us with a finality that makes my stomach flip.  

The room is luxurious but dimly lit, heavy curtains, a large couch, and a massive bed I try not to stare at.

He locks the door. Then he turns to me.  

“Take off the mask,” he says quietly.  

I reach up with slightly shaking fingers and remove it. My face feels naked under his gaze. He doesn’t remove his. Not yet.  

He steps closer until I’m backed against the wall. One hand braces beside my head. The other traces the line of my jaw, then slowly down my throat. His touch is firm. Confident. Like he knows exactly how my body will respond before I do.  

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “But you already know that.”  

His hand continues downward, skimming over my collarbone, then lower, until his palm cups my breast through the dress. My breath hitches. He squeezes gently, then harder, thumb brushing across my nipple until it aches.  

“Tell me what you want,” he says.  

I shake my head, stubborn even now. “I don’t—”  

He pinches my nipple sharply. A gasp escapes me.  

“Try again,” he commands, voice low and rough. “Be honest.”  

Heat floods my face. My thighs press together. “I… I want you to touch me.”  

“Good girl.”  

He leans in and kisses me — hard, demanding, no gentleness. His tongue pushes past my lips and claims my mouth like he’s been waiting all night to do it. I moan into the kiss, hands fisting in his suit jacket.  

While he kisses me, his hand slides down my body, bunching the hem of my dress up my thighs. Cool air hits my skin as he pushes the material higher. His fingers find the edge of my lace panties and trace the seam teasingly.

“So wet,” he growls against my mouth. “All from dancing?”  

I whimper when he presses two fingers against my clit over the fabric, rubbing slow, firm circles. My hips jerk forward involuntarily.  

“Please…” The word slips out before I can stop it.  

He pulls back from the kiss, eyes glittering behind the mask. “Please what?”  

I bite my lip, fighting the embarrassment. His fingers keep moving, steady and maddening.  

“Say it,” he orders. “Beg properly.”  

My head falls back against the wall. “Please… touch me. I need your fingers inside me.”  

He makes a low sound of approval. Then he pushes my panties aside and slides one thick finger through my slick folds before sinking it deep inside me.  

I moan loudly, hips bucking. He adds a second finger, stretching me, curling them just right while his thumb works my clit. The wet sounds fill the room and I don’t even care how desperate I sound.  

He pumps slowly at first, then faster, watching my face the entire time. Every time I get close, he slows down or changes the angle, keeping me right on the edge.  

“Fuck,” I gasp, gripping his shoulders. “Don’t stop—”  

“I decide when you come,” he says calmly, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “Not you.”  

The words send another rush of heat through me. I’m trembling, legs shaking, so close it hurts.  

He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “You’re going to learn how sweet it is to wait for me, Elena Voss.”  

My eyes fly open.  

He knows my full name.  

My real name.  

Not the fake one I gave the hostess. Not anything I told him tonight.  

The pleasure crashes into ice-cold shock. My body is still clenching around his fingers, teetering on the brink, but my mind is reeling.

I stare at the masked stranger, heart hammering for an entirely new reason.  

“Who the hell are you?”