One of the stranger’s arms is clasped across my back, while his other hand travels lower again, clawing my skirts up and slipping into my panties, over my bare bottom. Those devilish fingers roam my skin, smoothing and squeezing, and then they delve deeper, between my thighs, finding my slit. My face is a furnace, shock and desire mingling as he strokes one finger through the slippery folds, discovering how wet I am.

His mouth is still latched to my throat, and he’s sucking, sucking… I start to frown, to wonder…but then two of his fingers slip inside me, and I release a faint moan, sinking into the bliss of his touch.

Deep in my soft, slick channel, his fingers twitch and stroke, then begin pumping rhythmically. At the same moment, he breaks the long kiss on my throat—I’ll have a mark there for sure—and he licks my skin several times, as if he adores the taste of me, as if my skin is dusted with powdered sugar and he can’t get enough.

He eases his fingers out of me, and when I whimper a protest, he chuckles. “Greedy little kitten.” He runs his hand up my front, fondling my breasts through my sparkly fringed dress. I can’t help hating the dress, wishing it would disappear so I could feel his bare palm skimming over my nipple, his fingers kneading my flesh. The dress is going to be ruined now, stained with my arousal—his fingers are wet from me, from the liquid need soaking through my underwear.

I plunge my hands beneath his suit coat and rake his shirt up, dragging it out of his pants, working around the suspenders. Greedily I run my hands beneath the cool cotton of the loosened shirt, devouring the smooth, sculpted heat of his body. He’s beautiful, this man—I can tell that much, despite the dark. The body of a god, or the loveliest of monsters.

My slim fingers travel over his pectorals, nails scraping lightly, and he responds with a huff of barely contained lust, groping beneath my skirts again and sliding his hand into the front of my panties this time.

Sensation explodes through my body. Dazzling little bursts of electric delight dance along my nerves as he teases that small bud between my legs. Mama would never tell me its name; she called it the devil’s doorbell once. Not sure that’s a suitable name—he’s making me feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven, not to the other place.

I’ve played with myself a few times, when I dared to, but I’ve never been this aroused before, except once. My first time. The only time I’ve been with a man, and he touched me just like this.

It isn’t him. Couldn’t be. If he didn’t die in the war—if he really made it back, he would have come to me, found me…

He’s massaging that spot swiftly now, expertly, and I’m so close, I can’t help exclaiming a quiet “Shit!” And then I bite my tongue because Mama would die if she ever thought I knew that word, much less spoke it aloud.

The masked man laughs softly and presses his mouth to mine, as if to savor the taste of the profanity on my tongue.

The edges of our masks collide, but it doesn’t matter. I spin away into the sweet midnight darkness of that kiss, while moths burst into a fluttering frenzy in my belly and every bit of my skin comes to incandescent life.

I’m barely aware when his hand leaves my panties, when he picks me right up off the ground, still kissing me, and walks us both to the deeper shadow of a live oak tree farther down the sloping lawn. He ducks beneath a low-hanging bough, still holding me, still kissing me, and strides forward until he can set me against the trunk. Only then does he break the kiss and toss away his mask.

I can’t see his face in the dark. I don’t need to. With a trembling hand, I discard my mask too, and we wrap ourselves together, limbs locked and bodies grinding urgently. I hook my knees over his hips, lock him in with my ankles, haul him closer. My dress is scrunched around my waist, the fringe tickling my thighs. There’s a mere scrap of lace between my center and his pants—I rub myself against the hard bulge shamelessly, until, with a fractured groan, he reaches down and undoes the belt one handed. His pants are the new kind, with a zippered front. He rips the zipper down and pulls out his length. I reach for it, curling my fingers around it. Satin-soft and burning hard.

Desperately I rake my panties aside, uncovering my opening. His dick presses against me there, warm and urgent.

There’s a heady danger in doing this bare and unprotected. I think I know who he is, but I can’t be sure. I don’t want to be sure. I want to be a rebel, to be reckless. I want something wicked and dangerous that is mine to remember forever.

“Please,” I whisper.

He goes in easy, I’m so wet. Pushes himself all the way in…deep, so deep.

A gasp rips from my lungs at the sensation of that thick, hard column filling me up. My body welcomes him, like it recognizes his shape.

He groans, slow and heavy, like he’s been restored and unmade at the same time. It’s exactly how I feel.

Tonight, when I left Tom’s house, I abandoned my pearls in favor of a string of ebony beads I borrowed from Jordan. The beads bounce lightly against my chest as the stranger fucks me against the oak tree.

I don’t care about the grating of the bark against the back of my dress. Don’t care that my stockings will be ruined. This is what I need. This is everything.

I wind both arms around his neck. “More,” I plead breathlessly. “More. Faster.”

He redoubles his pace, driving sharp, little moans from my throat with every thrust. It’s the perfect rhythm, the perfect amount of friction, and I come with a breathless squeal under the boughs of the oak, under the canopy of the stars, under the sweet strains of the dance tune echoing from Gatsby’s party.

He pulses inside me, flooding my body with his release. He’s been holding my waist, keeping me steady, but when he comes, he shifts one hand and plants it against the trunk of the tree. His hips thrust forward once more, shoving into me harder, deeper. I suck in a breath of pleasure at the new angle, the solid feel of him. He comes a little more, with a ragged gasp.

When he pulls out, I’m sloppy and dripping. Without a word he sinks to his knees. Holding up my dress and pinning my panties out of the way, he begins licking me clean.

I tilt my head back against the tree, fingers splayed against the trunk, while he buries his face deeper into my sex, bathing every bit of me with his tongue. He growls softly, a predatory vibration that drives me blissfully mad, and I squirm, moaning for more.

A sharp prick of pain startles me, and I look down with a gasp. “Did you…bite me?”

He doesn’t answer, but I can feel it now—two sharp teeth piercing the lips of my pussy, gentle suction on my clit, growing stronger by the section. I should be screaming. I should be terrified, but the tiny pinpoints of pain are enhancing the pleasure. Everything between my legs is deliciously warm and wet, except for those intense points of painful clarity. I’m molten, mindless, prey to the exquisite sucking sensation over my clit and the slow, lascivious sweep of his tongue into my folds. I let my eyes close, succumbing to the swell of bliss, not caring how it’s happening, just yielding myself to it as it expands, wider, wider, a beautiful rolling wave that crashes, explodes into ecstasy. I half scream, biting the back of my wrist to stifle the sound.

When he gets to his feet, I’m coated in a light sweat, fragrant with sex, panting and sagging against the tree, trembling from head to toe, and completely satisfied.

He kisses me with damp, warm lips, and I taste coppery blood and salty cum on his tongue. It’s obscene and terrifying—and I love it.

When I swirl my tongue through his mouth, I feel the keen tips of his teeth, and in a moment of silent, blinding realization, I understand what he is.

Jordan and I read Dracula at the same time, one winter two years ago. A story, a myth, yet it seems more believable to me than the other truth about him—that he could be Jay Gatsby, the soldier I loved. The soldier who left me.

I don’t know how he became this—a vampire. But if being this helped him survive the war and brought him back to me, I accept it. Monster or not, he is mine.

He ends the kiss and zips up his pants, then fixes my underwear and pulls my dress down to cover my thighs.

My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I can see his face a little better now—strong lines, high cheekbones. Handsome and hauntingly familiar, though the leafy shadows playing across his features make it hard to be sure.

He reaches up to fondle the ends of my carefully combed blond bob. Well…it was carefully combed. Now I’m fairly sure it’s been mussed six ways to Sunday.

“I just had it cut this morning,” I blurt out. “It’s the fashion, and I needed a change.”

He smiles. “It’s fucking adorable.”

“My fiancé won’t like it.”

I wait for his reaction to that terrible word—fiancé.

After a few seconds of silence, he says, “What’s not to like?”

“Tom prefers my hair long. He hates it when I do things without asking his permission.”

“And you do them anyway.” He nods his approval. “Good girl. You should always make your own choices.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t, if they’re wrong choices that lead me astray.”

“Astray?” He laughs. “Doll, there’s only one path worth following, and that’s the one that takes you straight to what you want.”

“And if I’m not sure what I want?”

“Then you must try new things until you find your passion in life.”

“Try new things,” I say dully, finger-combing my hair into better shape. “Since my engagement to Tom, he’s taken me to so many places and we’ve done so many things—always with my family or his along as chaperones, of course. Yet I couldn’t seem to stir up much enthusiasm about anything. I think I’ve become quite cynical.”

“Maybe the problem wasn’t you or the places you went, but the people you were with,” he says. “With the right person, even a ruined shack in a mossy clearing can be exciting.”