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“Always.”

She uncaps the bottle and takes a healthy swig before passing it to me, where I follow suit. We pass the bottle back and forth two more times, and then we’re out the door and on our way.

The linefor Quixote’s almost wraps around the building. “Is Cage working tonight?” I ask Stacia, referring to her cousin who works the door here.

“Girl, yes.”

“Thank fuck. That line…”

“Is not for us.” She finishes my sentence and we link arms, smiling as we bypass it.

“?‘Sup, Cage?” Stacia calls out as we approach her cousin, who has arms as wide as tree trunks.

He nods his head, acknowledging us as he slaps wristbands on and ushers us through.

The bass that was audible outside is now seeping into my skin, running through my veins, and rattling my bones. I fucking love it. Stacia grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, where a mass of bodies writhe, all set aglow by the flashing neon-colored lights.

We immediately lose ourselves in the rhythm, dancing around one another until a beefcake with six-inch liberty spikes winds his way behind Stacia, gripping her hips and rolling his body in sync with hers. I catch her eye to make sure she’s open to his advances, and even though she prefers her men clean-cut, she shoots me a wink and a smile.

I don’t mourn the loss of my dancing partner for long. Moments later, two big hands clasp my shoulders before trailing down my arms. Together, me and my mystery Casanova move to the pounding bass like we’ve been dancing together all our lives.

Then, the song changes to something sensual and moody, and he steps impossibly closer. The heat of his body sears mine and he grips my hips, holding me to him, moving behind mealmost like he’s movinginme. Our dance is the best foreplay of my life. It’s almost as if he can anticipate my every move. I dip, he dips. I grind my ass into him and he grinds right back, his impressive erection lighting me on fire.

Ready to take this to the next level—also known as my apartment—I spin to face him. His scent invades my nostrils—a heady mix of sweat and Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue—and I swear I’m more drunk on him than the shots I took at home. I drag my eyes up his broad chest, admiring the way the black polo stretches across it, already fantasizing about his lips on mine, only to stop short when I land on my mystery man’s face.

“What the fuck?” I screech, not caring one bit how crazy I sound.

Brock smirks at me. “Don’t hate ’cause you liked it.”

“As if!”

“Get real, Abby Jane. You were grinding on my dick like you wished we were naked in bed.”

Shoving at his chest, I take a step back. “You fucking wish.”

Brock doesn’t bother with a reply. He just laughs deep and low before pivoting and heading toward the bar, where he posts up next to his older cousin, West. Turning away, I take a few deep, calming breaths. Even from across the room I can feel his eyes on me, heavy like a caress, and I’m determined not to show him just how affected I am.

Desperate for a drink, I head to the back bar and order a bottle of water, rolling it across the back of my neck before uncapping it and chugging it down. I’m about to set off in search of Stacia when a tall, sculpted Adonis approaches me. “Wanna dance?”

Playing coy, I pretend to ponder his request. Truly, I don’t want to dance—not after Brock. But that just pisses me off, and I’m not about to let Jockstrap ruin my night, so I place my handin Mr. Tall-and-Sexy’s and follow him out to the middle of the dance floor.

He moves like he knows his way around the bedroom—and maybe even a pole—but I’m not complaining, and I’m certainly not comparing him to Brock. I’m also not searching out a certain black-polo-wearing jackass.

And my heart definitely doesn’t drop when I see him dancing with a girl who looks like a real-life Barbie doll. Nope. Not at all.

My inner-denial is interrupted when my dance partner’s hot breath fans across my cheek. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

Tilting my head back, my lips brush his neck as I murmur “AJ.” Our eyes catch, and I swear he’s about to kiss me when suddenly he’s yanked away from me.

“What the fuck?” he roars, his eyes pinned on the bane of my existence.

“The fuck is, she’s only seventeen, it’s past her bedtime, and her mother will gladly press charges against your jailbait-loving ass.”

My eyes are wide with shock, and my blood feels like lava rushing through my veins. Oh-my-fuck, hedid notjust do that. “No! I’m not underage. Jesus Christ! I’m almost twenty-two!”

My Adonis glances from me to Brock, and that sabotaging asshole raises a brow as if to say,of course she’s gonna lie now, she’s been caught.Tall-and-Sexy lifts his hands out in front of him. “I-I didn’t know.” He slowly backs up before turning and hauling ass away from us.

“What is your prob—” Brock roughly grips my arm, though not hard enough to hurt, and practically drags me out of the club.