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I made my way to the water station, very carefully not looking for Tyson. The night air helped clear my head slightly, reminding me that I was walking a very dangerous line. Duke's suspicion was palpable, and I'd been about as subtle as a neon sign.

"You okay?" Tyson's voice came from directly behind me, making me jump. So much for keeping distance. “Everything good?”

I turned to face him, a mischievous glint in my eyes. "I'm fine. Just needed a break from the dance floor."

His gaze lingered on me, intense and unreadable. "You were dancing like you had something to prove."

"Maybe I do," I teased, taking a step closer.

The air crackled with tension, his proximity sending shivers down my spine. Tyson's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"You like playing with fire, don't you?"

"It keeps things interesting," I replied with a coy smile, enjoying the way he was watching me so intently. Before he could respond, I excused myself casually, turning on my heel and sauntering off towards the bathroom. Each step was deliberate, swinging my hips just a touch more than necessary, knowing his eyes were on me. As I disappeared into the crowd, a thrill coursed through me.

The tiny yacht bathroom was my refuge—a closet-sized space that smelled like expensive hand soap and bad decisions.

My hands shook slightly as I touched up my lipstick in the gilt-edged mirror. The deep berry color had mostly survived the champagne and party games. I felt a deep ache for Tyson from somewhere deep inside. I wished I could find a way to be alone with him somewhere secret.

The door opened without warning.

"Occupied—" I started, but then Tyson was there, filling the doorway like a storm about to break. He stepped inside, flippedthe lock with decisive finality, and suddenly the tiny space got a whole lot smaller.

"What are you doing?" I gasped, lipstick clattering into the sink. "Someone could—"

"What does it look like?" His voice was rough, dangerous in that way that made my insides liquid. He crowded me back against the marble counter, caging me with his body. "You've been testing me all night."

"I've been perfectly—" The lie died as he pressed closer, erasing any space between us. The hard lines of his body trapped me against the sink, and every breath I took was full of him—leather and beer and that cologne that made me stupid.

"Perfectly what?" His hands found my waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks through the thin fabric. "Behaved? That little show on the dance floor was behaved?"

Heat flooded through me that had nothing to do with the champagne. "I didn’t know you were watching."

"Bullshit." His thumb stroked along my ribs, the touch burning even through the dress. "You did everything but send up signal flares. Duke noticed. Wiz noticed. Hell, half the club noticed."

"Maybe I wanted them to notice," I said, three drinks making me bold and reckless. "Maybe I'm tired of pretending you don't exist."

Something shifted in his expression—control fracturing, revealing the hunger underneath. "That kind of talk deserves discipline."

"Promise?" I breathed, and that did it.

He kissed me like a drowning man finding air, desperate and demanding. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. The counter dug into my back but I didn't care, too lost in the taste of him, the way his hands mapped my curves like he was memorizing me through touch alone.

I nipped at his bottom lip, a sharp tease that made him growl low in his throat.

"Brat," he muttered against my mouth, but his hands tightened on my waist, lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. The new angle was better, perfect, letting me wrap my legs around him and—

"Your brat," I corrected, pulling him back down, swallowing his groan as I shifted against him.

We were lost in each other, the rest of the world fading to white noise. His mouth traced down my throat, finding that spot that made me gasp, and I forgot about the party, about Duke, about the dozens of people just outside the door. There was only this—Tyson's hands tangled in my hair, my dress riding up as I pulled him closer, the desperate need that had been building all night finally finding release.

His teeth scraped against my pulse point and I made a sound that was frankly embarrassing, fingernails digging into his shoulders through the leather cut. He lifted his head to look at me, eyes dark with possession and promise.

"When we get home," he said roughly, each word deliberate, "we're going to have a long conversation about your behavior tonight."

"Looking forward to it," I managed, though my voice came out breathless and needy.

He kissed me again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands framed my face like I was something precious, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. The contrast—fierce desire tempered with infinite care—made my chest tight with emotion.