“Apparently, I’m asking, Farmboy.” She walked forward, her diaphanous wings stretching two feet on either side of her, then looped her arms around my neck. “I’ll be your Buttercup for a song.”
“What’s my line?” I managed to ask. A song? I was taking this woman home for the night. The weekend. The month. The summer. Whatever I could take.
There was something tickling the back of my brain, some part of me whispering I’d seen her before. The way she tugged that bottom lip between a row of even, white teeth was familiar.
“As you wish,” she reminded me with another flash of a smile and started to dance.
One good thing about being a professional athlete? I knew how to move my body. That’s all dancing really was, anyway, just a cross between athletics and sex, both of which I excelled at.
I took her waist in my hands, then moved to the beat, pulling her against my body.
She gasped, her eyes flaring wide for all of a heartbeat, but she never slowed. Her hips moved like a dream against mine, her wings blocking out the rest of the gala. A hundred other people disappeared from view, and all I saw was her. All I felt were her curves under my hands as I slid them up the sides of her ribs, my thumbs brushing the jeweled ribbing of her corset beneath her satin and lace-cupped breasts.
“God, Hollywood, you can move.” Her lips parted as her fingers tangled in my hair, stopping when she met my mask.
She knew who I was.
“It’s easy with you as a partner,” I said honestly, my hands tracing the lines of her body until I gripped her hips over her skirt.
“Oh is it?” She asked flirtatiously. “Tell me something. What would the rest of the team think if they saw your hands right now?” She arched against me with the beat, running her hands down my shirt.
“That I’m the luckiest bastard in the city.” I grinned, dipping slightly to hold her hips to mine as we moved. At least I will be once you tell me your name.
“Just the city?” she asked, her lips skimming my jaw.
The sensation shot down my spine, hardening my dick in less time than it took to slip one hand under that lacy skirt to touch her warm, toned thigh. Her breath caught.
“In the world.”
Her laughter triggered that little whisper in my mind again. Familiar. Gorgeous. Where had I seen this woman before?
“You have no clue who I am, do you?” she asked, raking her teeth lightly on my earlobe.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, ready to haul this woman over my shoulder and find out exactly who she was underneath this butterfly costume.
“Come on, Hollywood, say my name,” she taunted, her finger sliding into my waistband just far enough to tease.
I cupped the back of her neck and drew back so I could look into those purple eyes.
“Say it,” she said, rising on her toes so our mouths were only a breath apart.
“Mine.” I ducked my head to kiss her, but I wasn’t prepared for how fast she moved away, laughing.
“Say that in the sunlight, Farmboy.” She winked, then spun, narrowly missing me with a wing. Her hair flicked across my outstretched hand.
Polyester? It was a wig. What color was her hair underneath?
Another blast of smoke curled around us, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing with a dropped jaw and a serious hard-on.
I followed after her, but she’d done the impossible and fucking vanished.
“Shit.”
2
Savannah
My skin still tingled from the places we’d touched on the dance floor. My blood was sizzling, burning with the need to feel him again. Exhilaration tore through my veins, my mind spinning.
He didn't recognize me.
I ran my fingers delicately over my blonde wig, and a crazed smile shaped my lips. My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way over to my best friend, London. Her petite frame leaned against a waist-high marble bar, her sapphire blue eyes lilting around the crowd, almost bored.
Her Marie Antoinette costume did everything to show off her tiny waist and ample bosom, the skirts of her dress popping out and hiding her athletic legs. There was enough makeup on her face that would make other people look like a clown, but on London? She looked like she stepped right out of 1770 France. All she needed was a platter of sweets in her hands and a sardonic smile on her lips.