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“They are just worried about you,” I tell him. “I’d do the same if my friends brought a guy to a party.” I blink. “I probably have.”

We stop outside my door and I turn to look at him. There’s a shadow of beard growth on his face. But it’s the only part of him that’s out of place. His shirt is still crisp, his hair is still pushed back from his face in dark waves.

“And I’m sorry about your ex,” he murmurs, leaning forward to press his lips against my brow.

My breath catches.

“It’s history.”

“Very recent history.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Getting further away each day.”

He leans against my door, reaching out to twist one of my curls around his fingers. “Can I ask you what happened?”

I let out a breath. “You can, but honestly, it’s very boring if it didn’t happen to you. I found out he was seeing somebody else.”

He winces. “How long had you been together?”

“Four years.”

“Christ. He’s a fucking idiot.”

“Thank you. I like to think so. Of course it didn’t help that she’s twenty-five and the company’s new social media guru. Made me feel ancient.” I wrinkle my nose.

He leans closer still. Enough that I can smell the low scent of his cologne. “It’s his loss,” he murmurs. “Because you’re beautiful and funny and any man could get lost in you.”

My breath catches, because he’s better at compliments than he thinks. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“And if it helps, I know that for sure because both Caleb and Beckett reminded me not to fuck this up before I left.”

I laugh. “I like your friends.”

“Not as much as they like you.”

He runs his thumb over his jaw. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you to dinner?” he asks. He’d suggested it when we arrived back at the hotel, but with all the champagne and cake I’m pretty much a walking sugar rush.

“Not tonight.” I pull my keycard out of my purse. “Would you like to come in?” I ask him.

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, smell that clean, expensive scent that’s already imprinted itself on my brain. His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again, slower this time, like he’s deliberately taking control of himself.

I should say something. Anything. But my body makes the decision for me, leaning in that final inch as his mouth meets mine. He moves closer, pressing my back against the door as he cups my face to angle it to his, his body pushing against mine as we kiss way too frantically for the hallway of an expensive hotel like The Hunt.

But I don’t care. I curl my fingers around the cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer still, until we’re lined up so perfectly it makes my knees weak. I feel the heat of anticipation rise up in me, making my skin tingle, as he slides his free hand down my side before curling his fingers around my hip.

His mouth is soft but determined, every movement of his lips sends delicious shoots of pleasure down my body and between my thighs. My breath comes in little pants as we part then kiss again, not caring where we are, because the need to be connected is more important than anything else right now.

I slide my tongue against his, and his grip tightens on my hip, his thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself. Then he slides it down, to the hem of my dress, his fingertips pressing against the soft tights I wore to keep my legs warm. For a second I think he’s going to go full caveman, tearing them off in the hallway of the hotel he owns.

“Mr. Hunt?”

We part faster than the speed of light. My lips are tingling, my eyes are wide, and I’m breathing like I just ran a marathon.

He looks at me with eyes that seem slightly out of focus. Then he closes them and takes a breath.

“Every fucking time,” he mutters, shaking his head.

The concierge appears, looking as red faced as I feel.