I lean against the bar, sipping the champagne Cami forced into my hand earlier. My gaze flickers toward the center of the room, where a couple has collapsed onto the plush carpet, completely absorbed in each other like the rest of us don’t exist.
She lies on her back, legs open, and a man kneeling between them, rolling his hips forward in slow, deliberate thrusts. Her moan spills upward, her fingers clawing at the rug as if she’s trying to anchor herself.
The scene is… hypnotic.
He dips down, kissing her with a heat that skates across my skin like a physical touch. The wet sound of their mouths. The soft slap of their bodies connecting. The scrape of her nails leaving angry red marks down his back. Her gasps getting louder, more desperate.
I should look away. I know better. I am not this person—whoever she is, breath held, thighs pressed together, and pulse thundering in rhythm with someone else’s pleasure. But the pull is magnetic, hot, and impossible to ignore.
His hand drifts lower, teasing between their bodies. Her back arches. Her cry shatters across the room. My breath catches like it’s caught on a hook.
My fingers twitch. Wanting to move. Imagining slipping beneath my dress, finding relief my body is practically pleading for.
But the fear of being seen keeps me still, even as the need coils tighter and tighter.
I tear my gaze away, heart pounding unevenly. The temptation is too much. My body is too keyed up, too responsive, too… alive.
This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.
And yet the hunger clings to me, ringing in my ears like a whispered dare:what if you just let go? Just once?
I push off the bar, needing distance, air, or anything. I slip out of the room and into the hallway, desperate to cool the flush licking up my throat.
I don’t make it two steps.
A hand wraps around my wrist—firm, and unyielding—and I don’t even have time to gasp before I’m pulled into a dark, narrow room. The door clicks shut behind us, swallowing the party whole.
And then I’m against the wall.
A hard chest presses into my back, warm breath brushing against the shell of my ear like he’s been waiting for me to run just so he could catch me.
“Asher—” I gasp, twisting against the grip I’m not actually trying to escape. An electric jolt runs down my spine. His hands tighten — one locking around my hip, the other flattening against my stomach, anchoring me exactly where he wants me.
“You ran,” he murmurs, voice low, and wicked. “But we both know you didn’t really want to.”
“I needed air,” I snap, even though we both know that’s only part of the truth.
His chuckle is low and far too knowing. “That’s cute, Kitten.”
I grit my teeth, trying to hold on to something—composure, logic, and sanity. Anything. “Let me go.”
He hums like he’s weighing the idea—which he absolutely isn’t—and his fingers drift down the front of my dress like he already knows what my answer would be if I said it honestly. “Say it like you mean it.”
I open my mouth to tell him exactly where he can shove it, but then his hand slides up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, and fingertips ghosting over my skin. The breath leaves my chest in a traitorous gasp.
His lips brush my neck, slow and deliberate. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m not,” I growl, even though we both know I am.
He chuckles again, fingers skimming over the lace of my panties, pressing just enough to shatter my composure. “Oh, Kitten.” A soft, mocking laugh. “You think I don’t know when a woman is desperate for me?”
I grit my teeth tighter, refusing to bend.
But then he hooks his fingers beneath the fabric, pushing it aside, and strokes through my folds.
A strangled sound escapes me before I can stop it.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against my ear, his fingers moving slow and teasing. He parts me, brushing over my clit in a featherlight touch that makes my knees tremble.
