The ballroom sparkled under the chandeliers, all glass and gold, a hundred Vought execs and politicians packed inside, sipping champagne and pretending their lives weren’t as rotten as the brand they worshipped. The band played something dull in the corner, waiters floated with trays of caviar, and every woman in the room was covered neck to toe in stiff designer gowns.

Noir stands beside you at the edge of the ballroom, motionless, a silent shadow in the glittering crowd. His head never turns, but his gloved hand drifts lower against your back, then down to your ass, squeezing with slow, deliberate pressure. To anyone else, he’s just standing guard. To you, he’s shameless.

His body doesn’t shift when his fingers slip underneath your dress, grazing bare skin. A subtle pause. He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath. He tilts his head just slightly, the faintest chuckle rumbling under his mask as his hand trails higher, pressing firmly between your thighs.

He turns his head to you, tilting it in an amused way.