Three. The Perfect Number Bonus: White & Gold
Author
R. S. Aria
Reads
19.0K
Chapters
1
White & Gold
Note from the Author:
Ever felt the urge to know more about the side characters of a story who werenāt quite in the spotlight?
Well, Sam and Ezra are the two everyone seemed most curious about from Three. The perfect numberāso I thought, why not give you a little peek?
Ezra is Madisonās oldest brother (one of two!), and Sam has been Madisonās best friend for as long as anyone can remember. While Madison heads off to college to chase her management and business degrees, Sam stays behind, holding things togetherālooking after her brother and her disaster of a mother.
But sheās always welcome at the Davis houseā¦ even if Madisonās older brother can be a bit of a pain in the ass.
So what happens when Sam takes Madisonās place at a masked gala?
This story is a glimpse into how Sam and Ezra happenedāa few weeks before Madison came back home, and just before the real mayhem began.
Thanks for reading,
R. S. Aria
***
The fresh summer breeze washes over me as a soft reminder of the shenanigans Iām letting myself fall into. The private path along the beach, outlined by black-and-gold lanterns, tells me Iām in the right place and that itās not too late to turn back.
The Gold invite burns a hole in my handbag, and never like this time, I wish my best friend were here as I slowly start to regret every single choice made in the last twenty-four hours.
āStop it. Just go there and relax, nothing bad is gonna happen if you let yourself live a little.ā Thatās what Madison said when she dropped the bomb on me that I was supposed to take her place at a black tie event tonight.
Many reasons to say no, and yet when Liam, her older brother, dropped by my door with a dress, a number for a babysitter already paid for, and all the accessories needed, I couldnāt say no.
So here I am, walking in a black satin dress that clings to me like a secret Iām not supposed to tell. Every curve is traced in liquid black, and the fabric catches the light with a dangerous gleam. The bodice grips me tight, framing my collarbones, and the deep plunge feels like itās both a dare and a warning.
Damn Madison and her fashion sense.
Sam
I feel like a fraud.
Maddi
You look stunning. Besides, didnāt you always want to go to one of these events?
Sam
With YOU! Not aloneā¦
Maddi
You are not alone, Ezra and Liam are there.
Sam
And that should make me feel betterā¦ why?
Of course, she left me on read.
Putting my phone back in my bag next to the golden invite, I take a turn and just as Iām about to reach the Grottaās entrance, a man in a black suit stops me in my tracks.
āGood evening, may I see your invitation, Madam?ā
āGood evening. Oh, yes, of course.ā The moment I hand it to him, another figure steps out holding a golden maskāVenetian style.
āThe mask has to stay on until you leaveā¦ and a nickname is required.ā
āTrouble.ā I whisper without thinking, but I nod, and the mask is gently pushed over my face, light but firm, the gilded filigree clinging delicately to my skin as though it already owns me.
I catch my reflection in the glass door. My short, wavy curls fall around my face in unruly waves, brushing against my cheeks as my own doe-shaped, olive-green eyes stare back at me from behind the maskāand for a moment, I hardly recognize the woman looking out. This mask is working.
The man gestures toward the arched entrance carved into the cliffside, and I swear Iām walking into another world entirely.
The Grotta opens like a secretāa cave turned cathedral, carved stone softened by velvet curtains and golden chandeliers suspended from hidden beams. Flickering sconces cast shadows that move like whispers along the walls. The air smells faintly of salt and expensive perfume, threaded with the low hum of conversation and music.
White and gold masks everywhere. Black ties, sharp suits, polished shoes. Men turn when I pass, eyes glinting behind their porcelain anonymity. The womenāfew compared to themāmove like liquid gold, their laughter carrying like a sirenās call.
I square my shoulders. Donāt fold, Sam. Just breathe. Own it.
At the bar, I manage a smile. The bartender, silent and masked in black, slides a crystal coupe across the counter before I even open my mouth. Champagne, chilled and shimmering under the low light. My fingers curl around the stem, grateful for something to hold onto.
For a moment, I let myself blend in. Sip. Breathe. Pretend I belong.
Thatās when he appears.
Tall, broad, his white mask catching the chandelierās light as he leans too close, brushing against me like weāre already acquainted.
āNot often we see someone new,ā he says, his voice smooth, but the hand that drifts too casually toward my waist makes my stomach tighten.
āAnd how would you know that Iām new?ā
āBeing able to recognize when someone steps in for the first time comes with time.ā He chuckles, low and unbothered, and closes the space again.
āWellā¦Iām just here for the champagne.ā I reply lightly, angling my body away.
āA shame to waste a night like this drinking alone. Why donāt we step outside? The view of the sea is unforgettable.ā
The way his hand presses lower on my waist has my skin crawling. āNo, thank you. I prefer it hereā¦ besides, I havenāt even had time yet to look around. Iām new, remember?ā
The charm on his face cracks. His grip tightens around my wrist, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind me he thinks he has the right.
āYou donāt say no here, sweetheart. Youāll learn.ā
Rage spikes sharply in my chest, fear not far behind. I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove his lessonābut before I can, heās gone.
Not vanished, just removed.
A strong hand clamps on the jerkās shoulder, yanking him back with a force that makes the man stumble. The newcomer steps into the space between us, tall, imposing, his tux impeccable, his mask gleaming like carved ivory and that scent of pine and whiskey that reminds me of someone.
The white-masked stranger doesnāt raise his voice, doesnāt make a scene. But the warning in his stance is undeniable.
āWalk away,ā he says.
The man who grabbed me sputters, trying to reclaim some dignity, but one sharp tilt of the strangerās head has him muttering something foul under his breath and slinking into the crowd.
The newcomer lingers. Not touching me, not crowding me. Justā¦ there. Solid. Watching me with an intensity I can feel through the mask, and something in my body tingles. The feeling of knowing exactly who is standing in front of me, but with no certainty whatsoever.
āYou alright?ā His voice is low, steady, muffled by the mask covering his face.
My breath shudders out, and I realize Iāve been holding it. I nod, forcing composure. āYes. Justāhe wasāā
āI know,ā he cuts me off gently, like he doesnāt need the details. Like he already saw everything.
āFirst time here, is it?ā His voice curls between us, velvet and unyielding at the same time. I tilt my head, clutching my glass like a shield. āDo I look that lost?ā
A faint sound escapes him, half amusement, half study. āYou lookā¦ still impressed by this. Thatās all.ā
His presence should be overwhelmingātowering, masked, protective in a way that feels far too personalābut instead, I find myself leaning toward him. My pulse doesnāt settle; it only shifts into a new rhythm.
āAnd you?ā I ask, trying for nonchalance. āYou make a habit of saving damsels in distress?ā
āOnly when the damsel refuses to admit she was in distress.ā I canāt see his face, since the mask hides most of his expression, but I can feel the smirk curving his lips.
Heat curls through me, uninvited but relentless. I sip the champagne to cool myself, though it does nothing but sharpen the fizz already humming in my veins.
The music swells around usāsomething dark, orchestral, with a thread of seduction woven through its notes. His hand extends, palm open, steady, waiting. āDance with me.ā
I should refuse. I should tell him I donāt dance with strangers. But my hand is already sliding into his, my body betraying me with its hunger for something reckless.
His palm is hot, his grip sure, and when he pulls me onto the floor, the crowd dissolves. He doesnāt touch me indecentlyājust his hand at my waist, guiding, commanding, every brush of contact setting sparks against my skin. I follow his lead, though really, it feels like Iāve stepped into his orbit.
āDonāt be nervous. I wonāt bite you,ā he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to my ear.
āHard to know since I donāt even know your name.ā
He chuckles, low and rough. āDoes that bother you?ā
My stomach twists because though I donāt know his name, under the mask and tux, he feelsā¦ familiar.
āNope. What about you?ā
āNoā¦ Sometimes itās better this wayā¦ so, what brings you here?ā
āMy incapacity to say no to my best friend, apparentlyā¦ and well, a little curiosity tooā¦ you?ā
āā¦work. I was also told to look after a friend, but she hasnāt shown up, soā¦ā He chuckles just as the song ends, and for some reason, Iām breathless when my chest rises against his. I should step away, but I donāt. He keeps me close, his hand trailing the curve of my spine, lower, lower, until my thighs ache for friction I wonāt admit aloud. I get a feel of his muscles hidden beneath the expensive fabric of his tux.
āCome with me?ā he says, giving me the choice even though I feel like that has already been made.
I let him lead me up a staircase, tucked discreetly at the back of the Grotto. The thrum of the party fades as we climb.
He opens a door, and the room beyond is dim, drenched in gold light spilling from a chandelier, the wide window framing the sea outside. The crash of waves echoes faintly through the glass.
He closes the door, but doesnāt lock it. Almost giving me all the time in the world to leave if I want to.
I donāt breathe as he steps toward me, not until his hands skim down my arms, deliberate and slow. He doesnāt go for my mask, doesnāt even try. Instead, he cups my jaw with reverence, his thumb stroking along the line of it.
āIs this okay with you?ā
He isnāt just asking if I want him to touch meāheās asking if I want this.
āYes.ā My answer is a whisper, but he seems to catch it.
āDo you want to stopā¦ and go back downstairs?ā
I shake my head quickly.
āYou sure?ā
āIām sure.ā My voice is steadier this time.
āIām a strangerā¦ā Something in his tone makes me feel the entire opposite of his statement.
āI know.ā But do I?
He leans closer, lifting his mask just enough to bare his mouth. His lips trail along my throat, teeth scraping lightly at my collarbone until I arch against him, desperate for more. His hands know exactly where to grip, how to pull me flush against the hard line of him.
But before he takes more, he stills. His lips hover at my ear. āI need you to tell meāwhat do you want tonight?ā
Heat floods my cheeks under the mask. āYou.ā
That single word is all it takes.
His hands tug at the straps of my dress, sliding it off my shoulders inch by inch. The satin pools at my feet, leaving me bare and trembling under his gaze.
He doesnāt rush. He lets his eyes roam, devouring every inch of my exposed skin without touching. When his fingers finally move, itās to unfasten his jacket, dropping it across a chair, then his bow tie, then each button of his shirt. Iām the one who pushes the fabric off his shoulders, palms brushing over his sculpted muscle that flexes under my touch. His chest is broad, ridged with strength, his abs cut like stone, and his skin feels hot beneath my fingertips. Forbidden, dangerous.
āYouāre staring,ā he teases.
āYou expected me not to?ā My reply is breathless, but bold, and I feel the urge to bite my bottom lip, but I donāt.
His short light-brown hair is mussed from my fingers, his jaw shadowed, and when his eyes catch the low light, green, arenāt they? Why does it seem like I know those eyes?
I shake those thoughts awayāand instead run my hands lower, over the waistband of his trousers, but I donāt dare to go lower, not when his fingers grip my wrists. āSo, Trouble, are you always thisā¦ adventurous or just tonight?ā
Howā¦ I want to ask how he heard my nickname, but I just let that go instead and answer firmly. āJust tonightā¦ I guess.ā
āMh. I seeā¦ and are you sure this is what you want?ā
āIām sure.ā My voice is steadier this time.
His lips curve into a smirk I can feel more than see. āGood. Because I intend to take my time.ā
Then he leans in and trails a slow path along my neck with his tongue, teasing, licking, biting ever so gently at my earlobe before sucking on it, and I arch into him, desperate for more.
A low, hungry grumble leaves his throat. His hands roam my waist, down my ass, along my thighsānever rough, just enough to make me ache. When a shiver escapes me, he slides one hand between my legs, fingers tracing the wetness already coating me.
āDelicious,ā he murmurs, voice husky with hunger.
I gasp, biting back a moan, fingers tangling in his short, light-brown hair as his gaze meets mine.
āYou like that, Trouble?ā he teases, running his fingers along my slick slit as his thumbs find my clit. The nickname sends a thrill straight through me, but his fingers are what make me bite my lips.
āI do,ā I manage to gasp just as his middle finger pokes at my entrance.
āThen let me hear youā¦ā
His hot whispers burn against my skin, and another gasp leaves me. But itās when his lips find my hardening nipples and his middle finger enters me that I let go and let him hear me.
His assaults on my nipples donāt relent, and he bites the sensitive skin just enough to have me moan. āSo wetā¦for a stranger,ā he whispers, adding a second finger inside me, which slides in easily considering how wet I am. The sound of my wetness is the only thing we can hear.
āFuck itā¦I need to taste you,ā he says.
Before I can even comprehend whatās happening, he kneels in front of me and slides up his mask just a little more. He pulls one of my legs on his shoulder before diving between my legs, but not before licking clean the two fingers that just a moment ago were driving me crazy.
āFuckā¦ā
When his tongue finds me, itās a slow, deliberate torture. He tastes me, teases me, bringing me to the edge again and again. My hips rock helplessly against him, nails scratching down his back, until Iām shivering, lost entirely. He sucks and bites my clit when his tongue is not busy eating me out, but itās when his fingers thrust in me again that Iām a goner.
āOh myā¦fuckkk.ā I come, all over his face, but he doesnāt stop until my legs give in. āGodā¦ā He licks my thighs, kissing the sensitive skin before standing, pressing my leg down, holding me still. Iām still tremblingābutter against his body. The satisfactory smirk is not visible, just like his strong jaw.
āYou taste like trouble, too.ā He licks his lips before taking my hands.
He guides me backwards until my bare back presses against the cool glass of the windows overlooking the sea, a dark, silent witness beyond.
āI donāt know how you taste,ā I say, feeling bold, even if my voice is barely a whisper.
āIām afraid thatās gonna have to wait.ā
His pants reach the floor the second after a foil packet has been taken from his pocket. His boxers follow, and my mouth drops open when I see his erection. However, I donāt have time to think about it because with his teeth, he tears the foil openāand in a second, he sheaths himself.
Grabbing my thighs, he manhandles me in the best way, wrapping my legs around his waist and pinning me against the glass.
āLast chance to stopā¦ā
āI donāt want to.ā
Pressing into me, he steals my breath away, inch by inch. I gasp, digging my nails into his shoulders, but he doesnāt seem to mind. āBreatheā¦ā he whispers before filling me some more. When it feels like he is ripping me apart, he stills, taking a deep breath of his own.
His lips find mine, but he doesnāt kiss me. Instead, he bites me before moving his lips on my jaw, where he leaves kisses and bites. When Iām ready to beg for him to do something, he pulls out, then thrusts into me again, one deep but slow move.
He does that a few times, moving measuredly, deliberately, savoring every inch. His body is honed by years in the gym, a weapon of strength and precision. Each roll of his hips is devastating.
āStill okay?ā His voice is ragged at my ear, but he waits.
āYes,ā I manage, the word a moan.
Then he lets go and his pace builds, harder, faster, driving me higher. His hand slides to my throat, adding just enough pressure to make me feel owned, seen, and utterly desired.
āYou feel soā¦ā Thrust. āFuckingā¦ā Thrust. āPerfect.ā Thrust.
My mind is fogged and I can feel my orgasm ready to burst.
His movements are now even more measured and deep, and Iām sure he has poked places inside me never hit before.
The climax blindsides me, violent and consuming, tearing through me until Iām shaking apart in his arms. My legs are jelly, and if he werenāt holding me, Iād be melting on the floor. He follows shortly with a low growl, muffled against my shoulder. His thrusts slow down, and he spills inside the condom as he holds me through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is our ragged breath and the crash of waves behind us. Our pulses thrumming between us.
With one kiss on my foreheadāalmost too intimateāhe withdraws carefully and helps me down.
Once Iām stable on my feet, he turns slightly to discard the used condom, and the dim light catches his left shoulder, and thatās when I see it.
The tattooāthree triangles crossed by an arrow. The middle one is filled in black, and the other two are outlined, just like Madisonās.
I canāt lie to myself anymore. The man who just ruined me against the glass, wearing a mask I should have torn off long ago, has the name my mind was screaming at meāitās my best friendās older brother, my longtime crush, Ezra.
Facing me once again, naked and with only the mask still in place, he locks his green eyes with mine and for a moment, I hope that the floor would swallow me whole.
āI think we can both stop pretending now, donāt you think, Sam?ā Ezra asks.
***
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the bonus content. Check out my newest book, UNEXPECTED STORM, out November 13th, 2025.
-- R. S. Aria
