The Costume Party
“This might not be a good idea,” I murmured to myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
This leather bodysuit, it was unforgiving. And I didn’t mind that, not really, but I couldn’t find a stance that didn’t involve propping my hands on my hips. No pockets, no layers, nothing. Just me and the leather.
And the bullwhip.
“This might not be a good idea,” I repeated.
I frowned at my makeup bag. This costume wasn’t going to be complete without a proper cat’s eye. I could manage a great many things requiring a steady hand, but eyeliner wasn’t one of them. I always came out looking like one of Macbeth’s witches after a long night at a cauldron.
But this was the plan. I was decked out as Catwoman—complete with the kitten ear headband—and my Batman was due in any minute. Since agreeing to attend this event, we’d had several spirited discussions of Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle. Their complicated love/hate relationship. The conflict between the original comics—where Catwoman was more supervillain than anything—and recent films that painted her as a salty antiheroine, forever compelled to do the right things for the wrong reasons.
Maybe it wasn’t the perfect fit for us, the Selina to his Bruce, but I wasn’t worrying on that tonight. The specifics of it all—how my edges fit his curves—were business best left for another day. I didn’t know when that day would arrive, but I knew we didn’t have to decide anything right now.
I was tucking the headband into place when the front door buzzer sounded. I clicked the lock, and then opened my apartment door, knowing Riley would make his way upstairs and inside. That boy didn’t require special invitations. Actually, he was probably due for a key of his own.
I returned to the bathroom, not convinced I’d perfected my cat’s-eye or hair. Leaning over the sink, I studied the thick, dark lines on my eyelid. I couldn’t tell whether I needed more or less.
“I gotta tell you,” I heard from the other room, “I’ve gotten a lot of strange looks tonight. As if it’s not Hallo-fucking-ween and everyone isn’t out in costumes.” There was some mumbling and stomping. “Where are you hiding, Honeybee?”
“Bathroom,” I called. “Come tell me if I look like a witch.”
“A witch?” he repeated. “You’re not supposed to be a witch. I didn’t sign up for witch. I signed up for sexy cat. Why the fuck are you a witch?”
Riley rounded the corner into my bedroom and stopped at the attached bathroom door. And there he was, in all his Batman glory. His hands were on his hips, his fingertips tapping impatiently and his waist looking impossibly lean. It made me think about wrapping my legs around that waist, curling into it in the night, pinching it, tickling it, licking it, biting it.
“Oh, Honeybee,” he said on a groan. “This might not be a good idea.”
“I know, I know,” I replied, gesturing to the mirror. “I have no restraint. I just can’t stop with the eyeliner. I was trying to even it out, but I think I made it worse. I just keep adding a little more to both sides, but soon enough, my eyelids will be entirely black. It’s like I was shooting for Anne Hathaway as Selina Kyle but ended up with Amy Winehouse as herself.”
He shook his head once, cutting me off with a sharp wave. “I don’t know what you just said and I don’t think I want to know,” he replied. “But you”—he dragged his gaze up and down my body—”you are fucking lethal.”
I glanced down at the bodysuit, the knee-high boots, the complete absence of modesty despite being fully covered. “You like it?” I asked.
Riley leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his lips folding into a tight line. “Yeah, Alex,” he replied impatiently. “Of course I fucking like it.”
I dropped the liquid liner into my makeup bag. “Why do you sound unhappy about that?”
He exhaled, and the sound shifted from sigh to growl. “I’m not unhappy,” he said eventually. “But let me set some ground rules for this evening. All right?”
“Of course,” I said, giving him an indulgent smile.
I knew what was coming. This was how Riley worked, and I loved it. All the growly proclamations, the filthy commandments, the graphic edicts. They only came after he was nudged right into hunger and need, desire deep enough to shake his chill.
“I’m giving you one hour at this party,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “One hour. Get your Instagram pics, drink whatever you want, shake your sweet ass all over the dance floor, drive me fucking crazy. But don’t even think about arguing with me when I tell you it’s time to go.”
“What if I’m not ready to leave?” I asked. I was fighting—fighting!—back a broad grin. It was too much fun to rattle Riley when he was busy issuing demands. “What if I want to stay longer?”
“Then we’ll see if your exhibitionism extends to sex in public,” he replied. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he dragged his fingertip along his jaw. “Not that I’d mind. I’d love to drag you into a corner.” He jerked his chin toward me. “Mess up that hair and makeup. Get under that leather. Fuck you, but not give you what you need. Leave you wet and wanting.”
“You wouldn’t,” I countered.
Riley gave me a placating grin. “I would,” he replied easily, and I was beginning to believe him. “I wonder how long we’d stay after that.”
Read the book
