"I explained about the colors—"
"Yes. Very convincing." He didn't release her wrist. "Tell me, what changed? Really?"
She had to give him something true, something he could taste as honest. "When you kissed me. When you… touched me." She made herself meet his eyes. "I… I didn't hate it as much as I should have."
His pupils dilated slightly. "No?"
"No." The wine made the word easier, made her skin flush with false warmth. "And I hate myself for that. But hating doesn't change it."
He studied her face, then released her wrist to stand. "Come here."
She rose on unsteady legs. The wine was working faster than expected, making everything feel soft-edged and too warm. When she reached him, he pulled her close, one hand at her waist, the other tangling in her carefully arranged hair before pulling her face closer.
"Show me," he said against her mouth. "Show me you don't hate it."
She kissed him, made herself kiss him like she meant it, her arms going around his neck. The wine helped, making her body respond. His mouth was hungry, demanding, and she matched it, letting him taste surrender on her tongue.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
"Better," he said. "Much better." His hands roamed, finding the shape of her through the silk. "But I think you're still holding back."
"The food will get cold," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than intended. The wine was making everything feel like too much—his hands, the silk, the air itself.
"Let it." But he led her back to the table anyway, pulling her onto his lap instead of letting her return to her chair. "I find I'm hungry for something else entirely."
She could feel the vial pressing against her skin. Not yet. Too soon, and the bloodshade would lose potency before he fed. She had to wait, had to endure more of this performance.
His mouth found her throat, kissing where he'd bitten before. She shivered, unable to stop the reaction. The wine made everything feel like fire and ice at once.
"This collar," he murmured against her skin, fingers tracing the delicate lace at her throat. "It hides too much."
Before she could respond, he gripped the sheer fabric and tore. The sound of ripping lace was sharp in the quiet room, and cool air hit her newly exposed throat and collarbone. He discarded the ruined pieces without a second glance.
"Better." His mouth returned to her skin, trailing down to where the lace had been. "Responsive tonight."
She shivered, unable to stop the reaction. "Maybe you're seeing who I really am." The lie came easier with wine warming her blood, making her pliant against him.
"Am I?" His teeth scraped her throat, not biting yet, just threatening. "Or are you performing for me?"
Her heart stopped. But his hand was moving up her thigh, and she realized he was teasing, not accusing.
"If I were performing," she said, turning in his lap to face him properly, "would it feel like this?"
She kissed him again, deeper this time, letting the wine guide her body's responses. His groan of approval vibrated through her chest. The warmth recoiled from the contact, but she pressed closer, using her body to hide its retreat.
"No," he said when they parted. "No, this doesn't feel like a performance."
His hands were everywhere now, possessive and sure. The dress felt like nothing between them, silk too thin to be armor. She could feel his arousal pressing against her, could feel her body responding thanks to the wine, and she hated herself for it.
"Bedroom?" he suggested, voice rough.
"No." She kissed him harder, selling the desperation. "Here. Now. I don't want to wait."
He laughed, dark and pleased. "Eager. I like this change." He lifted her onto the edge of the dining table, the wood cold against her thighs. Dishes clattered as he pushed them aside, a wine glass tipping, spreading burgundy across white linen. His hands ran up her legs, fingers finding the edge of her stockings, the bare skin above. The silk of her dress bunched higher with each touch.
"Beautiful," he murmured, spreading her knees wider, stepping between them.
His mouth followed where his hands had been, lips pressing to the inside of her knee. She jerked at the contact—the wine had made her skin feel too thin, every nerve exposed. His tongue traced higher, teeth grazing the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and she had to grip the table's edge to stay upright.
