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The way his mouth quirks up a little more says he knows I’m joking. He’s right about this too. When I’m at my best, I’m the exact kind of woman he’s describing. I know who I am, what I want, and how to get it. I don’t doubt myself. I don’t hesitate. I take my shots and I rarely miss.

But I’m not at my best currently. I’m struggling to find my footing. Struggling to make choices without second-guessing. I know I can get back to being the woman who owned any room she walked into, but right now, I’m not going to deny that I need a little external validation. And what do you know, there’s a man in front of me willing to give me exactly that.

“Whatever you say,” he murmurs. “But now that you know my type, I feel it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

If he really likes women who don’t hold their tongues, then I’m not going to. I’m not fully sure what I’m looking for tonight, but I do know that I don’t want it to end without him touching me again.

“I won’t lie to you, Thomas,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear me over the music. “Right now, my type is Formula 1 drivers with posh accents who are clearly resisting the urge to feel me up.”

His gaze goes molten, some of that infectious humor fading away. “Is that an invitation?”

I shrug, delighting in the way his eyes follow the motion, sliding down my shoulder and back up again. I feel like a cat basking in the sun, soaking it in. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

This time, I know I’m not imagining the way his fingertips brush back and forth against my thigh. “I don’t play with consent. You either tell me enthusiastically what you want, or I do nothing.” His fingers stop moving and I immediately long for the contact. “I think it’s time for you to decide whether this is real or just for show, Stella.”

He’s done letting me toy with him, and I can’t blame him. I’ve pushed us past the point of harmless flirting into something heavier. Something I find myself wanting to explore.

And honestly, he’s the perfect person to explore with. I don’t know this man and he doesn’t know me. I’ll see him at the wedding tomorrow, but after that, I’m sure we’ll never interact again. This could be the perfect opportunity to start my journey back into the land of being single. Thomas can be my guide for tonight, my bridge to the other side, my palate cleanser to wash away the sour taste of étienne.

I just have to be brave. I have to be the woman Thomas thinks I am—who I know I am underneath the hurt and heartbreak.

“Considering we no longer have an audience and I’m still here with you,” I say, mind made up, “I think you have your answer.” I shift so my leg presses against the side of his hand and my lips are at his ear. There’s no mistaking my intentions now. “I want it to be real.”

I watch the line of his throat as he swallows, unable to bring myself to see what’s in his eyes, needing to hear it instead. “It’s your turn to tell me what you want,” I murmur once a beat passes without his answer. Only then do I look up. It’s a relief to find him staring at my mouth.

“I want to kiss you.” The confession is a deep rasp, and the tip of his tongue drags across his bottom lip before disappearing again. “Very badly.”

That’s all it takes for the little spark inside me to flare. “So do it.”

Unfortunately, the words clear away some of the haze in his eyes, like it’s exactly what he needed to hear to come back to his senses.

His smile is soft as he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, fingers trailing down my neck until they rest on my shoulder. “You’re drunk.” His thumb strokes my collarbone, like even though he’s trying to shut this down, he can’t move away. “We shouldn’t.”

It would sting more if he weren’t fighting with himself, but even still, a thread of desperation weaves its way through my chest. I won’t beg a man to want me—not anymore—but I’m not above pushing back.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough, believe me,” I counter, lifting my chin. We’re already so close, it wouldn’t take much for either of us to reduce the gap to nothing. “You?”

“The same.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

“Someone could see.”

I draw back a little, the blow landing hard. Does he not want to be seen with me? Am I a liability to his reputation?

What a useless question. Of course I am. I’m that woman who lost her shit for the whole internet to see. Not that he knows about that, but still. It makes sense that he wouldn’t want to be associated with me. If I were him, I probably wouldn’t want to be either.

God, I should have known better than to believe this could actually turn into something tonight. I might as well be tainted and he knows it.

“Does that bother you?” I challenge sharply.

His eyes soften when he realizes how I’ve taken his words, and he lifts a hand to cup the back of my neck, keeping me from going any farther. “Not for the reason you seem to be thinking. It’s not about you.”

The reassurance takes the edge off the hurt, but it still aches like an old bruise that’s been pressed on. I cover it up with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you’re a mind reader on top of being a driver.”

“I can’t expose all my talents, now, can I?” Before I can banter back, he says, low and quiet, “I’m just trying to protect you.”

Something in my stomach tightens and drops dangerously between my legs. This appearance of the alpha male act shouldn’t turn me on, but I’ll be damned if I say it doesn’t. “Protect me?” I scoff. “From what exactly?”

“Some of my fans are a little…intense,” he explains, choosing his words carefully. “If they find out about this, they’ll know everything about you in five seconds flat. I don’t want you to face more scrutiny. You’ve been through enough.”

It’s so considerate that I almost want to slap him. I make do with sliding my palm up his thigh instead. If he wants bold, he’ll get it.

“You’re talking like you’re a member of a boy band with rabid fangirls. Calm down, knockoff Harry Styles.”

The hand on the back of my neck pulls me closer. It’s a rough touch, almost a yank, but it’s just shy of being too much. Either way, it sends a flood of heat to the apex of my thighs.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he whispers, a hairsbreadth from my lips.

“Shut up and kiss me, Harry.”

It’s a ghost of a kiss when he finally closes the distance. A brushing of lips, up once, then down. Nothing more than a tease. I would pull back and scold him, tell him to kiss me like he fucking means it, but he’s left me with nowhere to go. The hand on my neck is firm, and I suddenly realize that I’m the one being toyed with now. I’m the prey. And he’s not going to let go until he’s taken what he wants.

I’m close to whining in dismay, close to second-guessing what we’re doing and the choices that led me here. But then his mouth finally settles against mine, and all my doubts go up in smoke.

If that first touch was just a taste, then this is the main course. I open for him when his tongue sweeps across my lower lip, but that’s the last bit of control I’m allowed. Not that it matters, because the second his tongue presses against mine, I lose the ability to form a coherent thought.

There’s nothing tentative about this kiss. It backs up his words and proves he’s been thinking about this for a while. Something liquifies within me, like all the bullshit and anger and grief I’ve been holding on to are melting away. My whole body relaxes as the weight lifts, leaving Thomas to wind an arm around my waist to keep me from falling off the bench and into a puddle on the floor. His other hand slides from the back of my neck to cup my jaw, keeping my mouth to his, kissing me like he’s tasting heaven. Like he’s already addicted.

Good. He should be. If this is a game, then I’m the grand prize. He’s lucky—not many have had the privilege of winning me over, and he’s managed to do it in the span of a few hours.

But I’m the real winner here because, fuck , does this man know what he’s doing. I can’t remember the last time I was kissed like this, which is a shame considering I nearly married a man who hadn’t made me feel this kind of way in years. Now, though? I swear my life force is returning, starting in all the places he’s touching and climbing through my veins, reviving parts of me I feared might be dead.

I must be supremely deprived if something as innocent as a kiss is setting me on fire. Then again, maybe it’s not so innocent, considering his hand has moved from my jaw to my throat, squeezing just enough that it has me breaking away with a gasp.

“Oh goddamn,” I mumble as my eyes flutter back open. Somehow, my fingers have curled into his shirt, and I’m tempted to drag him back to keep this going.

He’s already staring down at me, his hand lingering around my throat, but the pressure’s gone. It’s a possessive touch, one that has my thighs clenching, and boy oh boy—I like it a whole hell of a lot.

“Was that too much?” he asks, fingers trailing down to my collarbone and tracing the neckline of my dress. I recognize my own words thrown back at me.

I shake my head, struggling to respond as I blink my way out of the daze he’s left me in. “Just enough.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up; he’s practically laughing at my struggle for composure, though he’s enough of a gentleman not to bring it up. “I probably have lipstick all over my face now, don’t I?”

The question gives me something to focus on other than the steady throbbing that’s started between my legs. I clear my throat and scan his face. “Not a stitch.”

“Really?”

“I do a lot of recipe testing,” I explain, glad for the reprieve from the tension, though I’m sure it’ll be brief. “I don’t have time to keep reapplying lipstick after every bite. This shit doesn’t budge.” I drag my thumb across my bottom lip to prove my point, knowing the deep crimson isn’t going anywhere.

Thomas’s eyes once again drop to my mouth, following the movement. “Knowing that only makes me want to kiss you again.”

I pout, settling back into my attitude, letting it wrap around me like a familiar embrace. I can’t believe this man has me feeling more like myself than I have in a long while. Maybe some of the credit can go to the alcohol loosening me up, but I really do think it’s mostly him. “Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing?” I mock.

“At this point, Stella,” he says, “I’d invite the whole world to watch.”

He doesn’t bother teasing this time—he dives straight in. This kiss is hot and searching, and there’s something almost desperate about it. My pulse pounds, my blood rushes, and every nerve is flaming bright as I push myself closer to him. I’m the one addicted now, needing a deeper taste, so I palm his jaw to make sure he can’t pull away before I get the fix I need.

He’s more than willing to give it to me as he steals my breath. It escapes as a moan, and I’d be embarrassed by it if he didn’t encourage the sound, tightening the arm around my waist and letting me taste the lingering champagne on his tongue. If we weren’t in public, I would have crawled into his lap by now and wrapped my arms around his neck, unashamed and unabashed. I want to cling to the feeling of knowing I’m wanted, even if it’s just sexually. Even if it’s just for tonight. I needed this more than I knew. And as I’m slowly starting to realize, I need more of it.

It’s him who breaks the kiss this time, turning his head so that my lips drop away. It shocks me out of my sudden and overwhelming desire, a cold reminder that we might not want the same things tonight. After all, he was quick to accept my earlier wishes to just talk, and he only said he wanted to kiss me. He could be done with me now.

“Not bad,” I comment before he can say anything. I want to beat his rejection to the punch, because I can’t bear to hear it.

I drop my hands back to his chest, which rises and falls just as rapidly as my own. The smirk on my face is forced, but I hope he can’t tell. “I’d give that one a solid seven point five out of ten.”

He blinks, his previously parted lips dipping into an offended frown. “Seven point five?” he questions in exaggerated offense, but there’s a laugh he’s hiding. “Come on. That’s insulting.”

“What?” I bat my lashes as I pull completely away, leaning back into my section of the booth and squeezing my thighs together to disperse the heaviness that’s settled there. At least this way, I can keep my dignity by pretending I’m not disappointed that this is over. “It was nice and all. I just think you can do better.”

He watches me carefully across the space I’ve put between us. “And I think you’re lying. You liked that. A lot.”

“Sure, maybe I’m lying.” I glance around, looking for a waitress so we can order another round of drinks, something to help buoy the letdown. “But it’s not like you can prove it.”

When I glance back at him, there’s a challenge I didn’t expect lighting up his eyes. “Oh, I think I can.”

I nearly jump when his hand lands on my knee. The feathers on the hem of my dress tickle me as his fingers drift higher, disturbing their careful placement.

“If I were to slip my hand under this pretty little dress,” he murmurs, his lips against my ear, “what are the odds that I’d find you wet for me?”

Fire blazes down my spine at the sudden reversal, but I refuse to give in so easily. Not when this might be a game of his own. Gone are my days of trusting easily and taking men at face value. “Slim to none,” I lie.

“Really?” The word is full of humorous disbelief. “Because I keep watching you press your thighs together like something’s going on.”

“Completely unrelated,” I brush off, trying to force my muscles to relax, but all of me has gone taut under his attention. “This booth is uncomfortable.”

“I have a better place for you to sit.” His other hand pats his lap.

This is far from the rejection I was expecting. Although, maybe it’s only because, like me, he can’t back down from a dare. Not that I meant it that way. My defense is to joke, to push the envelope before extracting myself from the situation and sauntering off to tend to my wounded ego in private.

But my usual methods and put-on nonchalance aren’t fooling him, and I have no idea what to make of it.

I draw my head back a little, turning so I can look him in the eye. I’m being completely serious when I ask, “Do you actually want that? Or are you playing with me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He merely stares me down as my stomach sinks and sinks and sinks, ready to hit the floor.

But it never does. Because Thomas hauls me into his lap with an arm around my waist, settling my back against his chest as I battle my surprise. The bulge in his tuxedo pants is solid under my ass, and I swear it only grows when I shift to get more comfortable.

“If you don’t want this, then tell me,” he says against my temple. “But I think you can feel exactly how much I want you.”

His hands are heavy on my hips, anchoring me and yet light enough that I could move away if I wanted. Not that I would.

So I let my head fall back. Allow my body to melt into him. Press my cheek to his so he can feel my smile. “The feeling’s mutual.”

His right hand slides down from my hip to the top of my thigh, practically crushing the feathers there. “Then let me show you what I’ve been thinking about since dinner.”

An eager shiver rolls down my spine. He feels it, I know he does. “Just don’t damage my dress,” I warn him. “It’s expensive.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It’s couture.” It’s not.

Spitefully, he plucks off one of the feathers and flicks it to the floor. “Five new ones, then.”

“Wealthy bastard.”

“Says the woman wearing couture and thousand-dollar shoes.”

“Six hundred,” I correct, my breathing growing shallow as he spreads his legs apart, moving mine with them until cool air rushes up to meet the soaked lace covering my heated skin. “Got them on sale. Love a bargain.”

“Don’t tell me you’re cheap,” he chides, hand delving between my thighs but still far from where I desperately want it to be.

“I’m the most expensive woman you’ll ever touch.”

It’s my turn to feel his smile against my cheek. “Now that I believe.”

The table hides us from the waist down, the white tablecloth hopefully shielding the view straight up my skirt as his fingers finally reach the lace of my underwear. He dips one under the elastic, tracing the smooth skin there up and down, practically hypnotizing me with the motion.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, but his teasing doesn’t cease.

I shake my head. I’m struggling to form a single word as my pulse thuds heavily at my core. “No.”

“No?” he presses, low and rough. “Are you sure?”

“If you stop,” I tell him on a sharp inhale, “I might have to kill you.”

He chuckles, not taking my threat seriously, even though I’m not remotely kidding. If he stops, I’ll combust on the spot, and I’ll take him down with me.

“We can’t have that, can we?”

Another finger joins the first under the fabric, both slipping bit by torturous bit closer to where I desperately want him to touch. My heart races like I’m on mile twenty of a marathon. But it’s the anticipation that makes it hard to breathe.

“Thomas,” I beg, desperate for him to just do it , to just sink his fingers into me and stop with the torment. “I need—”

But my plea ends on a gasp when his touch drags down my slit, setting every nerve ending ablaze.

“You’re soaked, Stella,” he says, fingertips gliding up and down, letting my arousal coat them. “I knew you were lying. You want this as much as I do, don’t you?”

My only answer is a breathless moan, no coherent words attached. It must tell him plenty, because he continues his torturous strokes, his touch moving farther inside with each motion until his thumb is pressing on my clit and his fingers are just barely dipping into my opening.

“Tell me how you like to be touched, sweetheart,” he whispers against my ear, to which he gets a whine and a buck of my hips in response. “Come on, use your words.”

A shudder rolls through my body as I fight to speak, turning my head enough so that I can meet his gaze. “You’re a smart boy,” I say. “Figure it out.”

“Gladly.”

In answer to my taunt, he doesn’t go easy, sinking both fingers into me at the same time. I’m so wet that he barely meets any resistance as he pumps them in and out again, but there’s just enough friction to make me shift my hips to seek out more. And— there . That spot. The one he hits when he curls up and presses harder against my clit, rubbing small, quick circles in tandem with the crooking touch.

It all has a hiss leaving my lips, pressure building low and hot and swift as my hands seek out something to hold on to, something to ground me as my world starts to shift on its axis. I grip his forearm, the one banded across my waist. It keeps me pinned to him—keeps me from moving too much and giving away what we’re doing, even though I want to ride his hand like it’s a bucking bronco.

“I’m guessing that’s the spot,” Thomas muses.

“The fuck do you think?” I pant.

“I’d say we can do even better.”

I’m already dripping down his fingers, so I don’t know what else he could possibly do to take this to another level. But he proves himself as he quickens the pace, and my inner walls clench with every flick and slide. I’m already close. It’s not going to take much more to send me over the edge.

“You feel just as good as I thought you would.” His lips brush my temple with an unexpected tenderness before drifting down to my ear, nipping at the lobe. “So tight and perfect. Fuck, I want that around my cock. I want to feel you squeezing me. Do you want that too, Stella?”

The words are enough to send me up and over the peak of pleasure, because yes —yes, I want that. I want this flaming high again and again and again, as many times as he’s willing to give it to me. And I want to hear this buttoned-up man keep whispering these not-so-buttoned-up words, just for me.

The moan that tumbles from my lips is nothing short of filthy, my body shaking as the orgasm racks through me. I’d be curled over his arm if he hadn’t pressed his hand to the center of my chest, forcing me back against him. My heart rages under his palm.

“ Fuck ,” I exhale, my head hitting his shoulder when my neck decides it’s too weak to hold it up. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I am. And there’s plenty more I want you to teach me.”

Once again, I can’t give him more than an incoherent response as I float down from the hazy high, this one a cross between a sigh and a raspy giggle. “I have no objections.”

“Then we should—”

He cuts short when someone walks in front of our table. His hand shifts back down my thigh, dragging my wetness with it and landing somewhere more appropriate, just as the person stops in front of us. I doubt they could see what he was doing under the table, but their presence is enough to snap me out of whatever spell I’ve been under.

I blink a few times before Rachel’s face swims into focus. She doesn’t look surprised to find us here—or find me sitting on Thomas’s lap—but her pout tells me she’s annoyed that she had to seek us out.

“Sydney threw up on a stripper and one of the groomsmen is crying uncontrollably because he misses his dog,” she shouts over the music. “Janelle’s too embarrassed to stay here any longer, so we’re moving to the next spot. You guys coming?”

I finally notice the boisterous crowd of people winding their way through the club. It’s a stark reminder of where we are and how we ditched the rest of the party to have a not-so-private one of our own.

Fucking hell, I literally let this man finger me under a table— in public —like we’re horny high schoolers at prom. Old Stella was daring, sure, but she never would have done something like that . Whoever I’m becoming is bolder than her predecessor.

“Yeah, sure,” I answer, still a little breathless. I consider sliding off of Thomas’s lap, but he holds me in place. Right. He probably doesn’t want Rachel to see his dramatically tented tuxedo pants. “Just, uh, give us a second. We’ll catch up to you guys.”

Rachel mumbles something before teetering off. Only then do I lean sideways and plop my ass on the bench next to Thomas, though my legs remain draped across his.

“So,” I prompt without looking at him, my voice high as I attempt to process what we’ve just done—and how I desperately want to continue it. All my earlier rules, regulations, guidelines, and personal promises are out the window. My once-dormant libido is now screaming I want to fuck this man , and it will not be ignored. “Should we leave with them?”

I want him to say no. Want him to suggest we ditch them and go off on our own. I want him to sweep me out of here and murmur dirty things in my ear for the rest of the night, then slip out before the sun rises and look back fondly on our one night together for years to come.

“We probably should,” he agrees. “Janelle and Ron might wonder where we went otherwise.”

I have to fight to keep my face from falling; I’m so disappointed that it feels like a gut punch.

“Or,” he goes on, “we could let them wonder and head to my room instead.”

He says it so casually that my gaze snaps up to his face again, searching his expression to figure out if he’s serious. His eyes hold a level of mischief I want to match, a knowing smile pulling up the corner of his mouth. It’s obvious to him what my answer is going to be.

“All right,” I say. “Let’s have some fun, Prince Charming.”