"I'm Jo," I say finally.
He looks at me for a beat too long. "Emmett."
Nothing else. No surname. No job. No context. Does it really matter? No.
The music pulses, bodies move, the club sweats around us. But in the small pocket of space between our shoulders, it's quiet. And then he shifts closer, his arm brushing mine, bare skin against bare skin. The contact sends a jolt through me.
"Do you want to leave?" he asks. Voice low.
My mouth goes dry. “Oh, are you sick of my company?”
Those stormy green eyes widen as a smile falls across his perfect lips. “On the contrary, I was kind of hoping you’d like to come back to my hotel room and get to know each other better.”
Oh. I get it now.
This is the point where a sensible person says no. Where a sensible person goes back to her friends. Goes home. Sleeps. Catches her flight in the morning on time. But this stupid white dress has some kind of superpower, and I’m not feeling very sensible tonight.
"Yes," I say.
We stand there for a second, staring at each other, both of us not quite believing what’s just transcribed. His eyes darken. They’re stormy and intense. Neither of us moves as the air between us crackles. Then he nods. “Better tell your friends you’re leaving.”
I quickly rush over and tell Hazel that I’m leaving with the grumpy man. She gives me a high five and tells me to send her a pin so she can make sure he doesn’t kidnap me or something. I don't say goodbye to Polly, she’s disappeared with some guy. I'll text her from the taxi. She'll understand. She'd be happy for me. I do as Hazel suggests and drop a pin in our group chat, then close my phone.
The ride to his hotel is quiet, not awkward. My knee bounces with nerves, and I force it still. My pulse roars in my ears. He doesn't try to fill the silence. Doesn't touch me either. Just sitsbeside me in the back of the cab, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. I sneak a glance. His jaw is tight, hands resting on his thick thighs. Those hands are big and I also notice scars across the knuckles. Is he a fighter? His hands look like those of someone who does physical work. Who uses his body for a living.
When we pull up to the hotel, some sleek place in Mayfair, he pays for the taxi and opens my door. What a gentleman. He then escorts me through the lobby and toward the elevator, where we stand side by side in silence. I’m close enough that I can smell him. He smells fresh, clean, and masculine. Not drowning in cologne like some guys. Just soap and something woodsy. Very outdoorsy. He stares at the numbers above the door as they change.
I stare at his hands again, watching his fingers flex once. Like he's holding himself back. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on.
The doors open, and we silently walk out and down the corridor toward his room. He unlocks the door and steps aside to let me in first.
Inside, the air is cool, a relief after the nightclub. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, but I barely register the view. He turns to face me as the door clicks shut behind us. His eyes track my face. Dark and hungry. I should say something. But I don’t because I am captivated by the man as he slowly steps toward me. I tilt my chin up, he's so much taller than me. I'm five-six in heels, and he towers over me. His hand comes up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle. Controlled.
"Tell me to stop," he says, his voice rough with need.
I haven’t come all this way for nothing. "No."
His mouth curves slightly, not quite a smile. "No, you won't tell me to stop?"
I nod. "No, I won't."
That's all the permission he needs before his mouth crashes into mine. And oh God. This kiss is different from any I’ve had in a long while. This is claiming as his hand fists in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. His other hand grips my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. He tastes like whiskey and want, and I can't get enough.
I press closer, needing to feel him. My hands slide up his chest, over those broad shoulders, and I can feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. He's solid. Built. The kind of body that comes from years of physical discipline. He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed, but he doesn't push me down, yet. Instead, his mouth leaves mine and trails along my jaw to my neck. He finds the spot just below my ear that makes me gasp and exploits it. Sucking. Biting. Marking me.
"Fuck," I breathe, head falling back to give him better access. His hands slide down my sides, over the curve of my hips, gripping my ass through the thin fabric of my dress, and he pulls me flush against him. I can feel how hard he is. Thick and ready, pressing against my stomach. My thighs clench involuntarily.
"I've been hard since you walked out of that club with me," he mutters against my neck. "Sitting in that cab. Trying not to touch you. Trying to be civilized."
"I don't want civilized," I tell him.
He pulls back. Eyes dark and assessing. "No?"
"No."
His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress and drag it down slowly. Deliberately. Watching my face the entire time. The dress pools at my feet. I'm left in a white bra and nothing else. I couldn't wear underwear with that dress, which I’ve never done before. And from the way his eyes darken as they rake over me, he's just realized.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You've been walking around all night with no panties?"
