The ballroom pulsed like a living thing—throbbing with music, masked desire, and bodies pressed too close for decency. Perfume hung thick in the air, mingling with the musk of sweat and something darker… something feral.
Lucien D'Aramitz stood at the edge of the chaos, a half-full glass of absinthe dangling from his fingers. His mask was black velvet, sculpted in the form of a devil's smirk. Fitting. His reputation had already entered the room before he had.
Silks rustled, laughter moaned, and behind every shadowed curtain there were whispers and gasps—some soft and sweet, others wicked and wet.
Then he saw her.
She stood near the grand staircase, a vision in crimson and black. Her mask was adorned with tiny silver thorns, and her lips—gods, those lips—curved like sin incarnate. A fan fluttered lazily in her hand, but her eyes—what little he could see of them—stripped him naked with one glance.
He knew who she was without needing an introduction.
Lady Evelyne Virelle.
The woman every nobleman wanted to tame, and every noblewoman secretly wanted to serve.
Their eyes met. The crowd seemed to fall away. She tilted her head slightly, the barest invitation.
Lucien didn't need more.
He cut through the crowd like a heatwave, his steps measured, his arousal already stirring beneath his embroidered breeches. When he reached her, he didn't speak. Instead, he raised her hand to his lips, holding it just long enough to let his breath ghost across her skin.
"Lucien D'Aramitz," she murmured, voice like silk dragging across bare skin. "I thought you'd be taller."
He smiled, lips brushing her knuckles. "And I thought you'd be less clothed."
Her fan snapped shut with a teasing crack. "Careful, noble devil. The court is full of ears tonight."
"Then let them listen," he whispered, leaning in, "while I make you moan loud enough to shake the drapes."
Her eyes flashed.
"You speak boldly for a man who hasn't yet earned a taste."
Lucien stepped closer, bodies almost touching. "Then let me earn it."