The summer storm had turned the garden into a glistening cathedral of leaves and fairy lights. Warm rain poured in silver sheets, catching the soft glow of a hundred bare bulbs strung through the branches of the old avocado tree. Beneath that dripping canopy stood Elena—completely bare, skin gleaming wet, dark hair plastered to her shoulders and breasts like spilled ink.
She should have run inside when the downpour began.
Instead she waited.
He appeared without warning, stepping out from the deeper shadows of the hedge. Black suit already soaked through, clinging to wide shoulders and lean waist. And the mask.
Porcelain-white, expression frozen in a scream that never quite became sound. The Ghostface mask tilted slightly as he studied her, rain tracing the exaggerated black hollows of the eyes, dripping from the gaping mouth.
Elena’s pulse lived in her throat.
“You’re late,” she whispered, voice almost lost in the steady hiss of water on leaves.
The masked man said nothing. He never did.
He crossed the wet grass in three long strides. One gloved hand caught her jaw—firm, not cruel—tilting her face up into the rain. The other slid low, possessive, splaying across the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. She felt the heat of his body through the drenched wool, the thick ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against her bare stomach.
A shiver raced through her that had nothing to do with the temperature.
His thumb traced her bottom lip, parting it. Rainwater ran into her mouth; she tasted iron and summer and him. Then the mask dipped.
The edge of hard plastic grazed her cheek, her jaw, the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She gasped when cold porcelain pressed against the side of her throat—a mockery of a kiss. Her nipples tightened painfully. She arched, trying to chase more contact, but he held her exactly where he wanted her: pinned, exposed, trembling.
Long fingers drifted down her spine, following the channel of rainwater that sluiced between her shoulder blades, over the flare of her hips, then lower. He cupped her ass with both hands now, lifting until she had no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist. The rough wet fabric of his suit scraped deliciously against her inner thighs.
She felt the tree bark at her back a second later—cool, ridged, grounding. He braced one forearm beside her head, the other hand guiding himself. No preamble. No warning.
Just the blunt pressure, then the slow, relentless slide inside her.
Elena’s head fell back against the trunk. A broken moan spilled out. The mask hovered inches from her face; she could see nothing behind the black voids but could feel everything—his controlled breathing, the tremor in his shoulders, the way he thickened even more when her walls fluttered around him.
Rain drummed on the leaves. Fairy lights flickered like distant lightning. He began to move—deep, deliberate rolls of his hips that dragged every inch of him against the spots that made her vision white out.
She clawed at his shoulders, nails catching wet wool. “Harder,” she begged.
The mask tilted again—almost curious.
Then he obeyed.
Each thrust drove her higher against the bark, breasts bouncing with the force of it, rain streaming over her collarbones and between them. The obscene wet sounds of their bodies competed with the storm. Her thighs shook; her toes curled against the backs of his legs.
When her climax hit it was sudden and merciless—back arching so hard the string lights swayed above them. She cried out his name even though she still didn’t know it, voice cracking into the night.
He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, hips jerking in sharp, helpless pulses. The mask never moved. No groan, no whispered filth. Just the brutal grip of his hands on her hips and the hot rush deep inside her.
For a long moment they stayed locked together, panting, rain washing over them both.
Then he eased out slowly, carefully. Set her feet back on the grass. One gloved finger traced the swollen outline of her mouth.
A promise.
He turned and melted back into the dripping shadows.
Elena leaned against the tree, legs unsteady, skin still burning where he’d been.
The fairy lights flickered on.
The rain kept falling.
And somewhere in the dark, she knew he was already watching her again.
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