“Join me,” she challenges, eyes flashing with mischief. “Aren’t you made for this kind of fun?”
“I’m watching you,” I counter, my voice rougher than intended.
She invades my space, her lips barely brushing my ear. That innocent contact ignites a current down my spine, scorching everything in its wake. “Why? Afraid I’ll see the real you?”
Something honest splinters right behind my ribs. Part of me wants to dull this feeling with a pill, a shot, anything to keep myself floating in this perfect moment without having to face what it means.
“You’re drunk,” I say firmly, but there’s hesitation in my voice.
“I know,” she says proudly. “Isn’t it nice? Everything’s…softer.” She gestures vaguely. “Do you ever feel that way? Like the edges aren’t so sharp anymore?”
“That’s what people look for here,” I admit. But from my own experience, you rarely find what you’re looking for at the bottom of a glass. I steady her as she tilts too far.
“Maybe I’m not looking for anything,” she says quietly, her voice cutting through the noise.
“Maybe you’re just tired of being looked at?”
“You need to get out of your skin,” she teases, throwing my words back at me with devastating precision. “Dance with me.”
“I shouldn’t,” I say, though my body follows hers. “You’re not…not in a state to—”
“To what?” she interrupts, suddenly lucid. “To make decisions? To feel something? I’m just drunk enough to be honest, Dante. Are you brave enough for that?”
I’m torn between instincts—to protect her from harm and to revel in her wildness. The selfish part of me hungers to watch her break free, to show her life beyond the pages of a script. Every nerve demands I lose myself completely in her chaos.
But for the first time in my reckless life, I want to savor something—savor her.
“Let me tell you a secret,”Reese whispers as we step into her cabin. She’s very tipsy. Not the kind of drunk that’ll knock her out the minute her head hits the pillow. But the kind where she wants to keep the party going, all night if she could. Even on the boat ride, the drive back to the jet, she didn’t care. Just kept dancing.
She chose this, but I can’t help feeling responsible.
“What is it?”
She kicks off her heels, turns to me, and giggles with a hiccup that’s so sweet it stings. “I’m wearing your gift.”
My spine stiffens, jaw tightening. All night I’ve itched to discover if she chose to put it on, and now she tells me.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say, ignoring her despite how badly I want to find out what all those black lines and lace look like on her.
Her fingers trace over my arm again. “Bold of you to figure out my size. But I like that about you. How you know things about me.”
I inhale.Don’t pay attention, Dante. She won’t remember any of this in the morning.I pull away from her, though every cell in my body screams at me not to, and I find a bottle of water in the fridge.
“Here, drink up. You need to hydrate after all that partying, wild child.”
She ignores my offering and steps closer. Palms on my chest. The smell of absinthe still on her breath. “What Ineedis for you to kiss me, Dante.” My name leaves her lips like a confession. “Please.”
I press crescents into my palms, needing something to ground me. This is worse than any craving, worse than withdrawal. She’s right here, willing and wanting, but this isn’t how we’re going to do this. I’ve waited weeks for her to warm up to me; I can wait a little longer to melt into her.
“You’re drunk,” I say, barely holding on.
“So?” she teases. “You’re telling metheDante Hastings never kissed a person who was a little tipsy before?”
“Not if they aren’t sober enough to consent.”
“I’m sober, and I consent,” she insists through another hiccup. She pulls her hand away before winding it into mine. I stiffen at the contact. Holding hands isn’t something I do. Unless there’s a practical reason, like helping someone over a fence or through a crowd. But she’s drawing our joined hands up, tracing my fingers along her jawline, her gaze heavy-lidded as she watches my reaction.
Her skin is soft, flushed from the alcohol, or maybe that’s just her. Her pulse thrums where our wrists cross.
