Armani tuxedo, Berluti shoes, Burberry watch.

Blue eyes, blond hair, a mouth a little too wickedly wide.

Yeah, I know I look good as I step out of my Audi R8 and walk into the hospital benefit.

I know it, the valet taking my keys knows it, the girl working the complimentary bar knows it. I give her the classic Bell dimple as I take a scotch from her, and she blushes. And then I turn and face the crowd of milling wealth, sipping my Macallan and thinking about where to start first.

Because tonight is my fucking victory lap.

First of all, I inked the Keegan deal this afternoon—which is this sexy stack of papers transferring a deserted downtown block of nothing to a New York developer—and my God, you would not believe the money these people have. It’s not normal money. It’s like oil money. It’s not only making my firm a shit-ton, but it’s going to anchor my position at Valdman and Associates, just in time for Valdman to retire and need someone to sit in that coveted corner office and count all the gold coins.

Second of all, I inked the deal, not Charles Northcutt—fuck that guy—and I would like to rub it in his stupid face tonight. I know he’ll be here because he can’t resist free drinks and bored trophy wives.

And third of all, I’ve been clocking a lot of late nights on the Keegan thing, which has severely cut into my sex life, and I’m hard up for it. I’ve got a few regulars saved to my phone and there’s always the exclusive club I’m a member of, but tonight’s my victory lap. That deserves something special. Something new.

I take another look around the room—Valdman’s in the corner with his wife, laughing and red-faced even though the benefit’s only just started, and Northcutt is right at his elbow, of course.

Fucking suck-up.

But tonight is mine, and there are gorgeous women everywhere, and maybe I’m just another white guy with too much money in a sea of white guys with too much money, but I’ve got the advantage. I’m a sinner with a dimpled smile and perfect hair, and I know how to make sin feel like heaven.

I swallow my scotch, set the glass down, and head off into the fray.

* * *

An hour later, I feel a nudge at my elbow.

“Dad’s here. Just so you know.”

I turn to see a man my age offering me another drink and giving me a convenient excuse to lean away from my current conversation and examine the room.

Sure enough, Elijah Iverson’s father is across the room, surrounded by the usual cluster of hospital mega-donors and society leeches. Dr. Iverson is the physician-in-chief of the hospital’s cancer center and an ever-present figure at these kinds of events, so I shouldn’t be surprised he's here, but my skin tightens uncomfortably all the same, sending prickles of heat down the back of my neck. I close my eyes, and for a minute, I hear the clatter of casserole dishes and my father’s raised voice. Elijah’s mother murmuring pleadingly. And I can still smell all of those flowers, white and cloying and needy, funeral flowers for a funeral that shouldn’t have been needed.

I open my eyes to Elijah’s knowing, rueful smile. He was there that day too, the day our families went from beyond close to something else. Something cold and distant. Elijah and I had stayed close—we’d bonded over Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in kindergarten, and a TMNT bond is a bond for life—but the rest of our families peeled apart, as if there hadn’t been two decades of shared barbecues and Pictionary nights and babysitting and slumber parties and late-night card games filled with wine for the adults and as many snacks as could be quietly snuck up the stairs for the kids.

“It’s fine,” I say. It’s only a half-lie, because even though Dr. Iverson reminds me of that day—of the awful hole my sister’s death punched through my life—we’re always civil and polite when we see each other, which is often enough in a city as small as this.

“Hey, the event looks great,” I add, mostly to change the subject. The Iverson-Bell schism is an old wound, and Elijah’s under enough pressure tonight as it is. It’s his first big hurrah as the event coordinator for the Kauffman Center after leaving the art museum where he started out, and I know he’s anxious for tonight to go well. And the fact that it’s also the one event of the year his father and all his father’s colleagues attend…I know I’m not imagining the lines of exhaustion and stress on Elijah’s brow and around his mouth.

He nods faintly, whiskey-colored eyes scanning the room. With that efficient, peremptory gaze and squared jaw, he is a striking twin to his father—tall and black and handsome—although where Dr. Iverson frowns, Elijah has always been a person of smiles and laughs. “Everything seems to be running smoothly so far,” he says, still assessing the space. “Except I lost my date.”

“You brought a date?” I ask. “Where is he?”

“It’s a she,” he says, sending a grin my way, and then he laughs at my face, because Elijah hasn’t had a she date since he came out in college. “I’m teasing, Sean. It’s actually—”

A harried woman in a catering uniform scurries up to Elijah brandishing a seating chart, interrupting whatever he was about to say. After a flurry of whispers and a muttered dammit from Elijah, he gives me an apologetic wave as he runs off to put out whatever fire is igniting behind the scenes of the benefit, leaving me alone with my scotch. I glance back over to Dr. Iverson, who is staring at me. He gives me a nod and I nod back, and I don’t miss the cool compassion in his expression.

I know exactly what that cool compassion is for, and a screw tightens somewhere deep in my chest.

Get yourself together and get back to the victory lap, Bell.

Except I suddenly don’t feel like the victory lap right now. I feel like more scotch and some fresh air, and even with the massive glass wall overlooking the glittering skyline, I feel claustrophobic and restless—and the trilling melody of the string sextet in the corner is so fucking loud right now, expanding like gas to fill every alcove and balcony. I work my way to the terrace door almost blindly, frantically, just needing

out

out

out—

The night air drenches me in an abrupt cool quiet, and I take a deep breath. And another. And another. Until my pulse slowly rambles back to normal and the screw in my chest loosens. Until my brain isn’t a juxtaposed mess of casserole dishes and flowers, some from fourteen years ago and some from last week.

I wish it were just the memory of Lizzy’s death doing this to me. I wish there was no reason for Elijah’s dad to look at me with pity. I wish that there could be one shower, one meeting, one fuckfest with a gorgeous woman when I didn’t need to have my phone close by and my ringer turned up in case of an emergency. I wish that I could just be happy that I landed this Keegan deal, that I have obscene amounts of money and a sleek new penthouse, and a nice body and an even nicer dick and hair that does a thing.

But it turns out there are some things money and great hair can’t fix.

Surprise.

I drink the rest of my scotch, set the glass down on a high-top table, and venture deeper onto the grassed terrace. In front of me, the city rolls up a hill in a gentle flutter of lights; behind me is the stark curtain of glass and steel that marks my kingdom. Where I live, work, and play. And the air is filled with the summer music of cicadas and traffic, and I wish, just for a fucking moment, that I could remember what it was like to listen to those noises with a sense of peace. That I could stare at these lights and not remember the blare of hospital fluorescents, the beep of monitors, the smell of Chapstick.

There’s hardly anyone else out on the terrace—although the night is young, and I’m certain drunk socialites will be laughing and tippling here as soon as the dessert plates are cleared away. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for the moment of solitude before I head back into the victory lap, and I suck in one final grass-scented breath before I go inside, and that’s when I see her.

It’s the dress I see first, actually, a glimpse of red, shivering silk, a flicker of a hemline dancing in the breeze. It’s like a red cape waved in front of a bull; within seconds, I’m Sean Bell again, victory lap and all, and I reverse direction, following the seductive glint of red silk until I find the woman it belongs to.

She’s facing away from the glass and the milling rich people on the other side of it, leaning against one of the massive cables anchoring the top of the building to the terrace. The breeze plays with the silk along her body, ruffling the skirt and painting mouthwatering outlines of her waist and hips, and the city lights gleam along the warm brown skin of her exposed arms and back. I follow the groove of her spine down to where her dress sweeps over the swell of her ass and then back up to the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, which are crisscrossed by thin red straps.

She turns at my footsteps, and I almost stop walking because fuck, she’s pretty, and double fuck, she’s young. Not like jail-young—but maybe college-young. Too young for a thirty-six-year-old man, certainly.

And yet I don’t stop walking. I take a spot leaning against the thick anchor cable next to her and put my hands in my pockets, and when I look at her, both our faces are completely illuminated by the golden light spilling out from the benefit.

Her eyes widen as she looks at me, her lips parting ever so slightly, as if she’s shocked at my face, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, but I quickly dismiss the notion. More likely she can’t believe how great my hair is.

Unless—do I have food on my face or something? I surreptitiously run a hand over my mouth and jaw to make sure, and her eyes follow the movement with an avidity that kindles a hot, tight heat low in my belly.

In this light, I can finally see her face properly, and I see that she’s not just pretty. She’s stunning, she’s incredible. She’s the kind of beautiful that inspires songs and paintings and wars. Her face is a delicate oval of high cheekbones and wide brown eyes, a slightly snubbed nose with a stud glinting at the side, and a mouth I can’t take my eyes from. Her lower lip is smaller than her upper one, creating a soft, lush pout. The entire picture is framed by a spray of corkscrewed curls.

Jesus Christ. Pretty. What a stupid word to have used for her, what a bland shadow of the truth. Cakes and throw pillows are pretty—this woman is something else entirely. Something that makes me blink and glance away for a moment, because looking at her does this weird thing to my throat and my chest. Looking at her gives me this feeling like my hand is on a veil shrouding some powerful mystery, the way I used to feel looking at the stained glass windows of my church.

The way I used to feel about God.

Thinking of church and God brings with it a habitual spike of cold irritation, and it forces me to compose myself. I’m sure this woman thinks I’m nuts, coming up to her and then not even sustaining eye contact. Head in the game, Sean, I coach myself. Victory lap, victory lap.

“Nice night,” I offer.

She turns her head even more, the ends of her curls kissing her bare shoulders as she does, and suddenly all I want to do is kiss her bare shoulders myself, brush her hair aside and kiss along her collarbone until she whimpers.

“It is,” she finally answers, and God, her voice. Sweet and alto, with just the tiniest bit of husk to the edge of her words.

I cant my head back toward the party. “Doctor or donor?” I ask, trying to subtly warm my way to the real question—did you come here alone?

Her eyes widen again, and I realize my words have surprised her, although God knows why, it seems like a normal enough question. And then there’s a flash of something unreadable in her eyes before she tamps it down.

“Neither,” she says, and I know I’m not imagining the guardedness in her voice.

Fuck. I don’t want to spook her—but then again, I don’t know that what I do want to do is that much better. She’s so young, too young to invite back to my place, too young to pull up into a hidden balcony so I can drop to my knees and find out how she tastes…

God, I should walk away. Stick to my usual buffet of socialites and strippers. But even though I straighten up to go, I can’t actually make my body move away from her.

Those copper-tinted eyes. That luscious mouth.

It wouldn’t hurt just to talk, right?

She squares her shoulders as I’m thinking about this, lifts her chin as if she’s come to a decision. “Which are you?” she asks. “Doctor or donor?”

“Donor,” I say with a smile. “Or rather, my firm is a donor.”

She nods, as if she already knew the answer, which I suppose she did. Most doctors have a decent tux in the closet, but let’s face it, they aren’t always known for their style. And I’m nothing tonight if not stylish. I reach up to adjust my bow tie, just so she can see the glint of my watch and cufflinks as I do.

To my surprise, she giggles.

I freeze, suddenly afraid I have food on my face again. “What?”

“Are you—” She’s giggling enough that it’s hard for her to squeeze out the words. “Are you…preening?”

“I am not preening,” I say with some indignation. “I’m Sean Bell, and Sean Bell does not preen.”

Her hand is up covering her mouth now, all long slender fingers and nails painted a shimmering gold. “You are preening,” she accuses through her fingers. Her smile is so big I can see it around her hand, and oh my God, I want lick my way down her stomach and look up to see that smile while I’m kissing between her legs.

“You know, women don’t usually laugh at me like this,” I say in a long-suffering voice, even though I’m smiling too. “Normally, they’re very impressed by my preening.”

“I’m very impressed,” she says with mock-earnestness, trying to school her face into an expression of fake awe, but she can’t do it and she just ends up laughing even harder. “So very impressed.”

“Impressed enough to let me bring you a drink?” I ask. It’s part of the script, a response that comes from years of habit, and so it’s only after I say it that I remember I don’t even know if she’s legal for alcohol. “Uh. Can you drink?”

Her smile slips a little and she drops her hand to her waist, where she runs abstracted lines along the silk. “I just turned twenty-one last week.”

What’s the rule again? Half my age, plus seven?

Shit, she is definitely way too young for me.

“So you can drink,” I say, “but I’m too old to be bringing you drinks, which is the real problem.”

She arches an eyebrow, her voice gently teasing. “Well, you are really old.”

“Hey!”

That smile again. Christ. I could watch that mouth move from a scrumptious little moue to a giant smile and back again for the rest of my life.

“Anything but wine,” she says, still smiling. “Please.”

“Okay,” I say, smiling back too. Grinning as if I’m a kid who’s just gotten asked to dance for the first time at a middle-school mixer. What is wrong with me? One pretty twenty-one-year-old and my victory lap has turned into a hike through eager newbie territory. And I’m anything but a newbie.

But still, my heart is pounding fast and my cock is stirring against my pants as I go get this woman a drink. Even though she’s too young. Even though I don’t know her. Even though she laughed at me.

I kind of like that she laughed at me, actually. Usually I’m taken very, very seriously—in bed and out of it—and I’m surprised at how good it feels to have to work for this girl’s admiration.

That’s it, I decide. That’s what I want: to win her over the tiniest bit. Maybe it would be wrong to take her home, but if I can make her leave tonight wishing I would’ve taken her home, that will be enough for me. Enough to scratch the itch.

I get her a gin and tonic from the bar, asking the bartender to take it easy on the gin, and get myself another scotch, and then I return to the terrace, relieved to see her still there, staring pensively out at the skyline with her arms wrapped around her chest.

“Cold?” I ask, prepared to shrug out of my tuxedo jacket and hand it to her, but she waves me off.

“I’m okay.” She takes the gin from me, taking a careful sip, then making a face. “Is there any gin in this?”

“You’re young,” I say, a bit defensively. “Your tolerance is low.”

“Are you this protective of every woman you meet?” she asks. “Or am I special?”

“You’re definitely special.” I deliver the line with all the charm and panache I’ve collected over the years, throwing in the dimple for good measure, and then she laughs at me.

Again.

I sigh. “Is it just utterly hopeless?”

“Is what utterly hopeless?”

I take a sip of my scotch, giving her my best puppy eyes. “Getting you to like me.”

She takes a sip of her own drink to mask her smile. “I think I like you just fine. But you don’t have to do the charming guy thing with me.”

“Well then. What thing works for you?”

She thinks for a moment, and the breeze toys with the ends of her hair, making them sway and dance. That strange feeling pulls at my chest again, as if the play of her hair in the wind is some kind of spell, conjuring up memories of stained glass and whispered prayers.

“I like honesty,” she decides aloud. “Try the honest guy thing.”

“Hmm,” I muse, tapping my finger against my scotch glass. “Honest guy thing. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“It’s the only thing that works for me,” she warns, an impish grin playing across her features. “I need complete honesty.”

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll be honest with you if you’ll be honest with me.”

She sticks out her hand. “Deal.”

I take her hand in mine to shake it, and it’s warm and soft. I let my fingertips graze against the pulse point on her wrist as I end the handshake, and I’m gratified to see a small shiver move through her.

“You have to go first though,” she says, pulling her hand back. She narrows her eyes at me. “And no cheating.”

“Cheating? Moi?” I put a hand to my heart as if staggered by her accusation, although I’m actually having more fun than I’ve had in ages. “I would never.”

“Good. Because this only works if you really do it. Don’t use it as an excuse to feed me some flirty line about how pretty I am and how you’d like to get to know me better.”

My hand still on my chest, I drop my head forward in mock defeat. “You’ve got me.” Because that’s exactly what I was planning on saying—which technically wouldn’t have been cheating. “Those things are also true though,” I add, lifting my eyes to hers.

She makes a circling gesture with her hand, yeah-yeah-yeah, and gives me another one of those arched eyebrows. “Say something you wouldn’t say to just any girl you wanted to get into bed.”

“Fine,” I say, and I set my glass down on the ledge next to us. “I think you’re more than pretty. I think you’re fucking gorgeous, and you’re not impressed by me, which makes me want to work very, very hard to impress you. I want to impress you with my mouth…” I take a step toward her, my hands safely in my pockets, so she sees I’m not going to touch her. “…and impress you with my fingers…”

Another step forward, and she lifts her face up to see mine better, her mouth parted and her eyes wide and blinking. I can see the vulnerable place where her pulse thrums in her throat, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The tight furls of her nipples against the silk dress.

“…and with every other part of my body.”

We’re so close now that my shoes brush against the hem of her dress, and I keep the distance just as it is—no touching, no pressing, no grinding, just my words and the electricity sparking between us. “And I do want to get to know you better. I want to know if you scream or if you moan when you come, I want to know if you prefer my mouth or my hands, I want to know if you like it deep and slow or fast and hard.”

She swallows, her eyes searching mine in fast, dazed flicks.

“And right now I can see the V between your thighs under that dress, and all I want to do is press my cock against it. I want to see if you’re sensitive enough that I can get you off through the silk, I want to see if I can lick you through the fabric.” I lower my voice. “I want to taste you. I want to taste you so badly that I’m hard just thinking about it. I want to see how your little pussy unfurls when I part it with my fingers, I want to know if your clit gets hard and plump when I suck on it. I want you to feel the place my nose presses into you as I eat you out from the front…and from behind.”

Her eyes are huge now, copper-brown rings around massive pools of black. “You can…you can do that?”

I cock my head a little, amused. “Do what?”

Her feet do a little shuffle as she looks down. “The, um. The eating. From behind.”

Jesus. She’s young, but surely not that young? Twenty-one is more than old enough to have found at least one boy who’s decent in bed. And oh God, what does it say about me that this sudden revelation of innocence is such a fucking turn-on? That she doesn’t know…that I could be the first to show her…my cock is pushing against the placket of my zipper like it’s ready to burst the seams, and my skin feels hot and achy and tight. And my tongue is desperate for the satin texture of her secret place, for the hidden taste of her, and I run it along my teeth, needing some kind of sensation to quiet the rioting storm inside me.

She watches my mouth, entranced. I watch her watching me.

“Yes,” I say huskily. “Yes, you can do that.”

“I, ah,” she says, and even in the indirect light, I can see a new rosy hue blossoming underneath the warm tones of her skin. “I didn’t know.”

I can show you, I want to say. Let me take you up to a deserted balcony. Let me show you how to brace your hands on the railing and present your ass to me. Let me show you exactly how a man uses his mouth on a woman from behind.

I don’t say that, though. Instead, I lower my head ever so slightly, just enough to make her lips part even more, and I murmur, “Your turn.”

The rosy hues are even more pronounced now, spreading across the sweet skin along her collarbone and up her neck. “My turn?” she asks breathlessly.

“To be honest. Remember?”

“Oh,” she exhales, blinking. “Right. Honest.”

“No cheating,” I remind her. “I was honest with you.”

“Yes,” she agrees, nodding, her eyes dropping to my mouth again. “You were honest with me.”

I give her a moment, even though all I want to do is crowd her against the cable and rub my aching erection against her silk-clad dress. Even though all I want to do is bury my face in her neck and suck at the sensitive skin there as I ruck up her skirt and cup her heat in my palm.

“Okay. Honesty.” She takes a deep breath and then peers up at me. “I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” she confirms. There’s the tiniest bit of quaking bravado in her voice, and I don’t like it. I mean, I’m halfway to dropping to my knees and begging her to let me see her cunt, but the better part of me wants her to be completely ready and certain. I don’t want her to fake bravery in order to be kissed—I don’t want her to require bravery at all. I pluck her drink from her hands and set it next to my scotch on the ledge, then I hold out my hand for her to take.

She looks confused. “Are you not going to kiss me? I thought—after all you said—”

“I want to kiss you very much. But right now can be as long as we want to make it, right? Maybe it’s the next ten minutes, maybe it’s the next twenty. However long it is, I don’t want to rush it. What if this is the only kiss I get to have from you for the rest of my life? I want to take my time. Savor it.”

“Savor it,” she repeats. And then she nods, relaxing. “I like that.”

She takes my hand and I lead her farther onto the terrace, where a tent with a dance floor has been erected, waiting for the after-dinner crowd to come for drinks and dancing. But it’s mostly empty now, and there’s only a lone employee carrying out trays of waiting champagne flutes and a speaker piping in music from the sextet in the lobby.

“How about a dance first?” I ask.

She looks around the tent, and some of her earlier confidence creeps back into her expression. “Are you sure you’re any good at dancing?”

“I’m excellent at dancing,” I say, nettled. “I’m like, probably the best in the world at it.”

“Prove it,” she dares, and so I do. I do what I’ve been hungry to do since I saw her, and I slide my hand around the dip of her waist, resting it against the tempting dimples at the small of her back and fighting the urge to slide my hand even lower. And then I pull her close to me as my other hand tightens around hers.

She shivers again. I smile.

It doesn’t take me long to find the music and sweep us into a simple two-step. I’m a serviceable dancer—some cousin demanded all the Bell boys take dancing lessons before her wedding, and I’ve managed to squeeze some use out of that exhausting experience at functions like this—and I’m pleased to find that the beautiful woman in my arms looks suitably impressed by it.

“You’re not bad,” she admits. As we move across the empty floor, the city glittering around us and the cicadas chirruping merrily, she meets my eyes with a look I can’t read. It feels like so much, like there’s so much there, history and weight and meaning, and I can almost hear the hymns in the back of my mind, taste the stale-sweet paste of a communion wafer on my tongue.

“You’re not bad yourself,” I say back, but they are just placeholder words, nothing-words, words to fill the air because the air is already filled with something thick and nameless and ancient and my heart and my gut are responding with a kind of keen fervor I haven’t felt in years. And it scares me. It scares me and thrills me, and then she moves her hand from my shoulder to the nape of my neck in a gesture both tentative and determined, and it feels important, it feels adorable, it feels like my body is going to rocket apart from the lust and the protectiveness and the sheer mystery of what I feel right now.

“What’s your name?” I murmur. I need to know. I need to know her name because I don’t think I can walk away tonight not knowing.

I don’t think I can walk away at all.

But something about my question makes her stiffen, and suddenly she’s guarded again, a careful shell in my arms. “I’m about to change it,” she says cryptically.

“You’re about to change your name?” I ask. “Like…for witness protection or something?”

That makes her laugh a little. “No. It’s for work.”

“Work? Are you even out of college?”

“I’m about to start my senior year. But,” she says sternly, “a girl can work and go to school at the same time, you know.”

“But the kind of job where you have to change your name?” I study her face. “Are you sure it’s not for witness protection? Like super sure?”

“I’m super sure,” she says. “It’s just a very unusual job.”

“Are you going to tell me about this job?”

She tilts her head, thinking. “No,” she decides aloud. “Not right now, at least.”

“No fair,” I accuse. “That was clickbait-y and you know it. Plus I still don’t know what to call you.”

“Mary,” she replies after a moment. “You can call me Mary.”

I give her a skeptical look. “That sounds fake.”

She shrugs, and the movement makes her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the back of my neck, and it feels so fucking good I want to purr. I’ve been in bed with gorgeous women, experienced women, more than one woman at a time, and somehow the play of Mary’s fingers through the short hair at the nape of my neck is more intense, more stirring, than anything I can remember ever feeling. I pull her in a little closer as the music sweeps into a softer, more melancholy song; the cicadas whirr along with the strings as if they’ve invited themselves into the sextet, loud and comforting and familiar.

“I haven’t danced like this in years,” Mary admits as we step easily around the floor.

“You’re too young to sound so old,” I tell her.

She gives me a sad smile. “It’s true.”

“That you haven’t danced like this in years or that you’re too young to sound so old?”

“Both,” she says, still with that sad smile. “Both are true.”

I urge her into a small spin, selfishly wanting to see the flare and wrap of her dress along her body, and when I see it, I have to trap the growl rumbling in my chest. God, those hips. That waist. Those small, high tits, braless and palm-sized under her dress. I yank her back into me, sliding my hand slowly across her back, teasing my fingers along the straps crisscrossing her spine.

She shudders at my touch, her lips parting and her eyelids going heavy. I slow our dancing steps, releasing her hand so I can trace the line of her jaw.

“Mary,” I rumble.

“Sean,” she sighs, and she says it like she’s been waiting to say it, she says it without hesitation, without worry, without the usual clumsiness of someone saying a name they’ve just learned. And the sound of my name on her lips unlocks a deep, heady need, something familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like a prayer chanted in a new tongue.

“Do you still want that kiss?” I ask her in a low voice. All of her seems ready now, there’s no fear anywhere in her face, but I want to make certain, I want her to want this as much as I do, I want her to burn with needing my mouth on hers.

She blinks up at me, her eyes pure liquid heat, and when I run my finger across the plump line of that full upper lip, she shivers again. “I want it,” she whispers. “Kiss me.”

I bend my head down, pulling her flush against my body so that every tight curve of hers is smashed against the muscled length of me, and I am about to replace my finger with my lips, about to finally taste her, about to kiss her until she can’t stand on her own two feet anymore…when a jarring bar of flattened pop music ricochets through the air.

And then suddenly Kesha is singing from my pocket. (Yes, I like Kesha. Who doesn’t? She’s great.)

“Um,” Mary says.

“Shit,” I say, letting go of her to fumble for my phone, taking a step away as I finally manage to accept the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Sean,” my dad says from the other line. “We’re at the ER.”

I give my arm an impatient shake to clear the tuxedo cuff away from my watch so I can see the time. “KU Med?”

“Yeah.”

“I can see the hospital from here. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Okay,” Dad says. “Be safe getting here…I mean, it won’t change anything if it takes you an extra five minutes…”

He trails off, lost. I know how he feels. I know exactly how thoughts get fuzzy and stumbling after the adrenaline of rushing someone to the hospital.

I hang up the phone and look back at Mary, who is chewing on her lower lip with her brow furrowed in concern. “Is everything okay?” she asks.

I run a hand over my face, suddenly feeling very, very tired. “Uh, it’s not actually. I have to go.”

“Oh.” But even though she seems disappointed, she doesn’t seem annoyed that I’m abruptly breaking away from our moment, like some women would be. If anything, her expression is—well, it’s kind. Her eyes are warm and worried and her lips are pulled into a little frown that I’ll forever regret not being able to kiss off her face.

“If you were older, I’d ask for your number,” I murmur. “I’d make sure we finished this.”

“We wouldn’t be able to,” she says, glancing away, something vulnerable and very young in her face, and fuck if it doesn’t pull at every corner of my lust and also at the bizarrely intense protectiveness I feel toward her. “This is kind of my last night out,” she clarifies. “For a while, anyway.”

Last night out? And then I remember that it’s August, that she’s a student, that she seems like the kind of woman to take her studies seriously. “Of course. The semester’s starting soon.”

She opens her mouth, as if she’s about to say something, correct me maybe, but then she presses her lips together and nods instead.

I take her hand and raise the back of it to my lips. It wouldn’t be right taking a real kiss before I dash off—something about it feels sleazy, even to me—but this, well, I can’t resist this. The silky brush of her skin against my lips, the smell of something light and floral. Roses, maybe.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It really hits me that this is the last time I might ever see this woman, the one woman I’ve met in years that I desperately want to see more of, and there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s too young and she’s not offering me any way to contact her anyway—and I have to get the fuck out of here and up to the hospital.

I drop her hand with more reluctance than I’ve ever felt over anything in my life, and I take a step back.

“It was nice to meet you, Mary.”

Her expression is conflicted as she says, “It was nice to meet you too, Sean.”

I turn, feeling something yank in my stomach as I do, as if my body is tethered to hers and begging me to turn back, but my mind and my heart are already racing ahead to the hospital. To the emergency room which I know far too well.

“Whatever it is,” Mary calls out from behind me, “I’ll pray for you.”

I look at her over my shoulder, alone on the dance floor, surrounded by city lights, draped in silk, her face that intriguing combination of wise and young, confident and vulnerable. I memorize her, every line and swell of her, and then I say, “Thank you,” and leave her to the glittering lights and relentless cicadas.

I don’t say what I really want to say as I leave, but I’m thinking it all the way to the valet stand, bitterly repeating it in my mind as I roar up the road to the hospital.

Don’t bother with that praying shit, Mary. It doesn’t work anyway.