Claiming Brielle
Nodding, she works to pull down her skirt and fix the top of her dress, which has been messed up from my groping.
“You’re going to need this,” I announce, passing her a mask that sits beside me. “Since this is a masquerade.”
“A masquerade,” she repeats, fixing her mask in place. “Like a ball?”
“Something like that,” I respond as the door in front of us opens and our driver, who looks flustered, appears. “You’ll see soon enough; now come.”
Bab Populer