Kiss Me at Midnight - A Halloween Short Story

Enjoy!  🎃

 🎃 Kiss Me at Midnight

A Halloween Romance Short Story 

by L.S. Phoenix

Some masks hide secrets. Others reveal them. There are three things I hate about Halloween parties.

One: costumes that require explaining.

Two: strangers who think a mask gives them permission to flirt badly.

And three: my best friend, Sophie, who has somehow convinced me that attending a masquerade ball held at a renovated Victorian mansion will be fun.

“Stop glaring,” she says, adjusting the silver mask covering the upper half of my face. “You look gorgeous.”

“I look like someone about to be murdered in the opening scene of a horror movie.”

“You're wearing a black dress and heels, Claire. Not a bloodstained nightgown.”

“Give it time.”

Sophie laughs and disappears toward the bar, leaving me alone beneath a chandelier that probably costs more than my car.

Wonderful.

I last exactly eleven minutes before escaping to the terrace. The October air is cold enough to raise goosebumps along my bare arms. Beyond the railing, the garden glows with strings of amber lights, and carved pumpkins line the stone pathways.

At least out here, nobody is trying to convince me to dance.

“Running away already?”

The voice comes from behind me. Deep. Amused. Annoyingly attractive.

I turn.

A man stands in the doorway wearing a tailored black suit and a dark mask that conceals the upper half of his face. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and holding two glasses of champagne.

“I prefer the term strategic retreat,” I say.

His mouth curves. “Should I be concerned?”

“Depends. Are you here to tell me how mysterious I look?”

“No.”

“Ask what I'm dressed as?”

“Definitely not.”

“Deliver a terrible pickup line?”

He considers that. “I was going to offer you champagne, but now I feel wildly underprepared.”

Against my better judgment, I smile.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Careful,” he says, offering me a glass. “Someone might think you're enjoying yourself.”

“Let's not start rumors.”

He steps beside me, leaving a polite distance between us. For a while, we watch the garden in comfortable silence. Then he says, “Are you always this suspicious of strangers?”

“Only the suspiciously charming ones.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“For you?”

“For my chances of convincing you to dance.”

I glance at him. “You haven't asked.”

“Would you say yes?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I'm preserving my dignity.”

I laugh. Actually laugh at that.

It's been a long time since a man managed that without trying too hard. Inside, the music changes to something slow and haunting.

He sets his untouched champagne on the railing. “One dance,” he says.

“That's not a question.”

“One dance, Claire?”

My smile vanishes.

He goes still as I stare at him.

“How do you know my name?”

For the first time since walking out here, he looks almost nervous. Then he reaches up and removes his mask.

And my heart does something spectacularly stupid.

“Ethan?”

My former neighbor. My high school debate partner. The boy who once climbed through my bedroom window with a bag of stolen Halloween candy because I'd been grounded.

The man who moved across the country six years ago without ever knowing I'd been half in love with him.

He smiles. “Surprise?”

I blink.

Then narrow my eyes. “You absolute jerk.”

His smile widens. “There she is.”

“You knew it was me this entire time?”

“About three seconds after you threatened to accuse the party guests of murder.”

“That could've been anyone.”

“Not with your delivery.”

I fold my arms. “You could've said something.”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

He looks at me for a long moment. “After I worked up the courage.”

That stops me. Ethan has never lacked courage. Not when we were kids. Not when he stood up to the school principal. Not when he left our tiny hometown to chase a career everyone told him was impossible.

“You?” I ask quietly. “Nervous?”

“Around you? Always.”

The music drifts through the open doors. Somewhere inside, people cheer.

But I can't look away from him. “Why?”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to make the cold night feel suddenly warmer.

“Because I spent six years wondering whether I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

My throat tightens.

“Leaving?”

“Leaving without telling you how I felt.”

I stare at him, and he lets out a humorless laugh.

“Yeah. I know. Terrible timing. Six years too late.”

“Ethan—”

“I came back last month,” he says. “I kept trying to figure out how to see you without making it weird.”

“So you chose a masquerade ball?”

“In hindsight, not my strongest plan.”

I laugh softly, and his gaze drops to my mouth. Then the air between us changes.

“Claire,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me I shouldn’t look at you like that.”

I swallow. “Like what?”

“Like I've been thinking about kissing you since we were seventeen.”

My pulse stumbles. “That's a very long time.”

“Trust me. I'm aware.”

I step closer, and his hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at my waist.

“Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“You're still terrible at making the first move.”

He smiles. “Is that a complaint?”

“It's an observation.”

“Then let me correct it.” He leans in slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away.

I don't.

His lips brush mine, soft and tentative. Then I catch the front of his jacket and kiss him properly. He makes a quiet sound against my mouth, and suddenly there's nothing tentative about the way he pulls me closer.

His other hand slides to the back of my neck. The kiss deepens. Warmth rushes through me, chasing away the October chill. When we finally separate, his forehead rests against mine.

“Well,” he whispers.

“Well,” I agree.

“Worth waiting six years?”

I pretend to consider it. “Ask me again after the second kiss.”

He laughs. And kisses me again.

Somewhere inside, a clock begins to chime. Midnight.

Ethan draws back just enough to look at me. “Happy Halloween, Claire.”

I smile. “Happy Halloween, Ethan.”

Then I tug him closer by his jacket.

“Now,” I say, “about those six years you owe me…”

His grin turns wicked. “I was hoping you'd bring that up.”

He doesn't wait for me to finish the thought. His hand closes around mine, and then we're moving — back past the champagne he abandoned on the railing, through the open doors, into the wall of heat and music and too many people.

"Where are we going?"

"Away from them."

Good enough for me.

He cuts through the crowd like he's got a map in his head. Down a hallway. Up a narrow back staircase that creaks under both of us. The music thins to a pulse behind the walls.

"You've been here before," I say.

"I looked up the floor plan."

"Of course you did."

He opens a door at the end of the hall. A study, dark wood, a wall of books, one lamp, a leather chaise beneath the window. The door clicks shut, and the party becomes a murmur.

Then he turns and looks at me properly.

I forget every clever thing I was going to say.

"Come here," he says.

I go.

His mouth is on mine before I've crossed the rug. My back finds the bookshelves, the spines dig in, and I could not care less. The kiss outside had been a question. This one already knows the answer.

His hands travel up my sides, over the silk, and stop under my arms like he's memorizing where I end. He kisses me like a man catching up on six years, which I suppose he is.

"Ethan," I manage, between his mouth and my jaw.

"Yeah."

"Stop being polite."

He laughs against my throat. "That a complaint?"

"It's an observation."

"Noted." He nips my earlobe, then finds my zipper and drags it down one tooth at a time, knuckles bumping along my spine.

"You've thought about this," I say.

"Six years' worth."

"Give or take."

"Mostly give."

The dress gives way and slides down my shoulders, over my hips, and hits the floor. He steps back just far enough to look at me. Heels, black lace, silver mask—and something in his face goes very quiet.

"Keep the mask on," he says.

"Bossy."

"You have no idea."

He unhooks my bra with an almost insulting ease, and then his mouth is on my breast, warm and slow, tongue dragging, and my head falls back against the books. My hands find his shirt and start on the buttons, and I'm terrible at it.

"Ethan."

"Mm."

"Take this off or I'm ripping it."

"This is a very expensive shirt."

"Is it?"

He straightens, shrugs off his jacket. The tie goes next, then the shirt, and I get to look at him—the shoulders, the flat stomach, the faint scar on his ribs from the summer he fell out of the oak tree behind our houses. Six years older and exactly the same.

"There you are," I say.

His smile flickers. Then he lifts me by the waist and sets me on the desk. Papers scatter. Something rolls off and hits the floor. Neither of us checks.

He kneels.

"Oh," I say.

"Yeah," he says, and peels my underwear down my legs.

The first pass of his mouth arches my back clean off the desk. He's slow about it. Unhurried. Like the six years were nothing and he's got all night and the party downstairs can burn.

"Ethan—"

His tongue flattens and drags, and whatever the rest of that sentence was, is gone.

Two fingers slide into me while his mouth works. My heels dig into his back, the wood creaks, and I'm making sounds I haven't made in years. He curls his fingers, finding the spot, and keeps finding it, over and over, until my thighs start to shake.

"I'm—" I gasp.

He doesn't slow down.

It rolls through me in waves, one after another, and he stays with it until I'm pushing at his head and laughing and swearing.

When he finally looks up, his mouth is wet, his eyes are black, and he's grinning like he's won something.

"Worth the wait?" he asks.

I grab his belt and pull. "Get up here."

He stands. I get the belt open, then the button, then the zipper, and slide my hand inside and wrap my hand around him and watch his jaw go tight.

"Claire."

"Mm?"

"Do that again, and this is over before it starts."

I do it again.

He groans, steps between my legs, and pushes me flat across the desk. My heels come off somewhere. His hand hooks my knee. He's right there. Then he's inside me —slow, all the way, and we both stop breathing for a second.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Ethan."

"That's not—"

"Move."

He moves.

It's not graceful. The desk is too small, the lamp is rattling, one of us knocks over a stack of books, and neither of us stops. He braces one hand on the wood beside my head, the other gripping my hip while he drives into me. I hold onto his forearms and watch his face, six years of waiting pour out of both of us into a room that smells like old paper and champagne.

"Look at me," he says.

"I am."

"Good."

His rhythm stutters while mine's already gone. He gets a hand between us and presses his thumb right where I need it, and that's it—I come again, harder this time.  I clench around him, and hear myself say his name like it's the only word I know.

He follows a few strokes later. Buried deep. Face in my neck. Breathing like he ran here from across the country.

For a while, neither of us says anything. Somewhere downstairs, the party is still going. And Sophie is absolutely texting me. I couldn't care less.

For the first time all night, I'm very glad Sophie dragged me to the party.

The End. 🎃❤️

A little note from me ❤️

Sometimes the best love stories begin with terrible timing, unfinished conversations, and a second chance neither person saw coming.

I hope you enjoyed this little Halloween romance!

If you love stubborn heroines, charming heroes, and chemistry that refuses to stay buried, you'll find plenty more romance in my published books.

📚 Explore my books:

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

And tell me in the comments: Would you rather fall for a mysterious stranger at a masquerade ball—or discover he's someone you've loved all along? 🎭❤️