“That’s it. It’s official. I’m done.”

I slam my final shot of tequila down on the bar and nod my head resolutely.

My best friend, Erin, snorts and rolls her eyes.

“Right. You keep telling yourself that, babe.”

Shooting her a sideways glare, I open my purse and pull out my lip gloss.

“See,” Erin says with a laugh, “you’re nowhere near done.”

I smack my lips together when I finish applying the gloss, then toss my blonde waves over my shoulder and give her an innocent smile.

“I meant here.”

I gesture vaguely around the dimly lit lounge that’s part and parcel of living in the Bradford—a luxury apartment building in the Upper East Side.

I fucking love it here. It costs a pretty penny, but it’s absolutely worth it.

“That’s more like it.”

Erin looks at her watch. “Because the minute Emilia Adams calls it a night at eleven p.m., then I’ll know I’ve stepped into some alternate universe.”

Yeah, so I’m the consummate party girl.

What can I say? I know how to have a good time, and as long as I’m young and free, might as well make the most of it, right?

“So where to?” I ask her, signing the slip of paper in front of me with a flourish and pushing it toward the bartender before standing to go.

I can practically feel the tequila seeping into my veins, a warm, heady rush taking over my body as I think about what kind of trouble we might get into tonight in the clubs of Manhattan.

Erin gives me a too-wide grin, not unlike the grimace emoji she’s so fond of using.

“Um, yeah, about that.”

“No way! You are not bailing on me tonight.”

I’ve got a game plan. It’s early, and we can hit up quite a few of my favorite exclusive clubs if we get started now.

“I’m sorry, Em, but I have to finish up my project. I was totally planning on figuring it out last night, but 33D was going at it even later than usual, and I couldn’t get anything done.”

I laugh at her reference to her upstairs neighbor who probably holds an Olympic gold medal for the number of girls he fucks in a week.

“I know exactly what needs to get done, my friend—you.”

Erin shakes her head. “Not all of us are able to have every New Yorker with a Y chromosome dropping at our feet begging for half a second of our attention.”

I grab Erin’s hand and pull her from the barstool, giving her my most disarming smile.

“Come on, babe. You can work on it tomorrow. I’ve got big plans for us tonight.”

I’m not taking no for an answer here, and she knows it. I can already see her starting to cave. It won’t take much.

She opens her mouth, and I can already hear the yes on her lips—my powers of persuasion don’t just work on dudes, you know—but then, her jaw just hangs there, her eyes going comically wide as she stares over my head.

Knitting my brows together, I spin around to see what has my normally articulate friend more or less speechless.

And immediately feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

A bus.

A fucking bullet train.

Like, I think I might actually stagger back a step.

God, I hope not. But holy fucking hell. This guy that just waltzed into the Bradford’s residents-only lounge is seriously the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.

I mean, yeah, I totally get that a statement like that sounds like hyperbole, but fuck…

He’s tall, at least six feet, with broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, his body a perfect masculine V-shape that makes me certain there’s another sinfully sexy V right underneath his clothes that points straight down to heaven.

But it’s not his body that has my mouth suddenly as dry as the fucking Mojave. Neither is it his dark hair—almost black—that’s perfectly in place except for this one lock over his eyebrows that has my fingers itching to reach up and brush it away.

No, it’s his eyes—it’s just as dark as his hair. They suck me in like a vortex, an abyss, a black hole, or some other science-y shit. Making the dryness of my mouth a perfect counterpoint to the wetness pooling in my La Perla.

Like, if my mouth is a desert, my pussy is a fucking geyser right now.

I give myself a little shake. Because what the fuck?

A hot guy isn’t exactly new territory for me. Neither is the way those depthless orbs seem to latch onto me and devour me whole, full of filthy intention.

This happens on the regular, and not because I’m some supermodel or something. I just give off that vibe. I’m confident, sure of myself, and that translates into a sexiness that transcends mere looks.

I’ve realized this over the years. Sexiness is an attitude, a mindset.

One I’ve mastered.

So yeah, my knees shouldn’t feel like jelly right now. My stomach shouldn’t be fluttering in a way that feels like a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies was let loose inside of me. And my pussy shouldn’t be throbbing, clenching, fucking aching as this guy walks toward me.

But it is.

Then he smiles.

“Hey.”

One word. That’s all. And my whole fucking world is turned upside down.

“Hey,” I say back.

Yeah, that whole thing about Erin normally being articulate? Her momentary lapse is nothing compared to the total lack of game I have right now. I want to kick myself, slap myself, pinch myself—anything to not feel like I’m at a total loss.

But nope, apparently, all I can do is smile dumbly at this guy.

I feel a sudden sharp pain in my side as Erin nudges me in the ribs. It jolts me out of my momentary stupor, enough for me to tear my eyes away from Adonis himself.

Erin’s looking back and forth between me and this guy, then she smiles waaaay too innocently.

“I’m headed downstairs. Catch you later, Emilia.”

She’s gone before I can even process that she totally just ditched me for the night. But right now, I could practically kiss her for it. Because Hottie McHotterson reaches out his hand and takes mine, drawing it up to the very lips I can’t tear my eyes from.

“Emilia.”

He smiles again, sending a vibration of anticipation rocketing through my body.

“I’m Evan.”