“What are the other virtues?” I ask, gobbling up his compliments like they’re a bowlful of candy. I want to eat them all then take another handful too.

“Her lips aren’t just pretty. All these words that spilled from her wicked mouth, and her wicked mind, had a particular effect on a certain man.”

I arch a brow above the outline of my mask. “What sort of effect?”

He moves closer. “I think you know.”

“And this man, I wonder who he is.”

He’s inches away, and I’m on the edge. My whole body vibrates with anticipation. “I think you like not knowing who he is,” he says.

I shake my head, as the confident, masked me answers, “You’re wrong.”

He wrenches back. “Why am I wrong?”

Time to go for Boardwalk. Time to make my move. I loop my hands around his neck, jerking him closer. “I love not knowing.”

I go for it. I’m soft at first, but not tentative. I brush my lips to his, dusting across his mouth.

We’re not soft for long.

He shifts the kiss to hard. Rough. A little desperate. A lot needy. And full of promise.

It’s one of those kisses that doesn’t exist on its own, but as part of a continuum. It will become a mouth over skin, a tongue tracing the softest parts of me. It will lead into hotter, wetter kisses that don’t stop. It will turn sloppy and wild as we fuck.

He’s kissing me that way, his hand running up my neck, traveling along the braided section of my hair. I moan into his mouth because it feels so damn good the way he sweeps his thumb over my cheekbone as if he’s imprinting the feel of me, memorizing me.

We kiss harder and deeper, our tongues tangling. Our bodies press and grind, and I wonder if he’s curious why I’m a jack-in-the-box tonight, wound up, full of a desperate need to get closer.

But maybe he’s not thinking of why, because it’s enough for him to be the object of all my pent-up desire, this unknown man, this stranger. Briefly, a neon sign flashes in my brain—who is this man behind all this black? He could be anyone.

But I know enough. He’s in this field. He’s a venture capitalist of sorts. That’s more than I need to know.

Besides, I don’t truly care what he does for a living.

I care how he makes me feel.

His kisses should be labeled “known to induce swooning.” His touch should be listed as the kind that can melt me into a puddle. Because that’s who I am right now. I’m dissolving into sugary-sweet pleasure as he touches me.

Names don’t matter. Jobs don’t matter.

All I need to know is this man can kiss.

He can flirt.

He can dance.

He can talk.

He can play along with the fantasy I always knew I had but never pursued.

And there’s one more thing I want to know.