"Do you want another glass?"
"I won't feel comfortable driving home if I have a third drink." The fridge pulls my gaze one more time. "But it would be a damn shame to waste the rest of that bottle."
"It would," Peter agrees. "Think of all that effervescence never getting to fulfill its destiny."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You are a very bad influence."
"You could have it, wait a few hours, and then drive home. Drink lots of water. All the water."
I wiggle my eyebrows.
He pretends to hit the couch with a gavel. "Sold to the prettiest flying squirrel there ever was."
"You flatter me," I say, getting up from the couch to follow him into the kitchen.
He pours the champagne to the brim, enough to empty the bottle, and retrieves a third beer for himself.
Something overtakes me by the time I'm halfway done, a combination of the champagne and the late hour, but my limbs are loose, and apparently so are my lips.
"Dance with me, Sailor." I hold out my arms. "Put on something slow."
Peter eyes me. He's been drinking dark beers, the kind with a higher alcohol content, so I know he's not sober either. Still, he has his mind about him.
"How do you think your fiancé would feel about that?"
"I absolutely, totally, unequivocally believe he would not care."
Peter leans closer, looking me dead in the eyes. "And why is that? Hmm?"
"You and I, we're...friends." Is my voice breathy? Maybe it's the champagne making me sound like I'm panting.
"If you were mine, I wouldn't let another man spend an evening like this with you." He gestures from me to him. "Curled up on a couch watching a movie."
"While wearing a muumuu's older, uglier sister?" I stuff my hands into my pockets, because whoever made this loves me and knew I'd want pockets.
"Interesting how much effort you put into making sure you looked like you made zero effort."
"Someone thinks highly of himself," I say, pushing at his chest. It's a mistake, mostly because I push at his chest and then...my touch stays.
He looks down at my hand. Back to me. "Sunshine." He says my nickname like a warning. "I'd be very, very careful if I were you."
"Oh yeah?" This is bad. So bad.
My flat palm glides up, smoothing over him, traveling over his collarbone, climbing his throat. My fingers find his hair, my fingernails scraping over him. His low, guttural groan seeps into me.
I meet his gaze, and then I see his hunger. This man is famished. My fingers curl, guiding his head closer to mine. For the shortest second he allows it, but something passes through his eyes and his muscles become rigid.
"We can't," he rasps. He looks pained. Regretful. But he hasn't moved.
"It's ok," I whisper, smiling softly. "Duke and I have an agreement."
Confusion crosses his face. "What?"
"Mm-hmm. And I'll tell you everything…Later. Right now"—I bite my lower lip and look up at him through my lashes—"I'd like to do other things."
Stunned, Peter says nothing. But his eyes track me. He watches raptly as I step back. Tug the oversized garment over myhead and toss it aside. I'm in black leggings, anddamn it, my ugly bra.
Peter comes to life. He steps in, wrapping an arm around my waist, hauling me into his chest. My breasts press against him, pushing up, but he's not looking at them. He's staring into my eyes.
