I know this is a mistake. I’m huddled in the corner of the elevator, my eyes fixed on the illuminated ascending numbers taking us inevitably to the top floor where Deck has been living the past few weeks. If I knew what was good for me, I would push the red emergency button; alert maintenance that there’s an accident in progress right inside this elevator car. But I can’t. I woke up with this numbness spreading over my body like a plague. It’s even frozen over my heart. I knew today would be painful; that it might hurt like a fresh wound, but nothing hurts and nothing feels good. Not the deceptively innocuous champagne bubbles zipping through my bloodstream. Not the many guys I danced with tonight or the secret touches they stole while we moved to the music. Nothing has made me feel all day.

Except him.

Call it lust. Animal attraction. Whatever it is, I felt it like a shot of adrenaline as soon as I saw Decker tonight. I study him from under surreptitious lashes, roving my eyes over silky hair the color of nutmeg brushed with honey. The slightest curl of it at his nape softens the hard line of his neck. His brandy-flavored eyes watch the climbing numbers, the bold nose and thick brows and wide, mobile mouth harmonizing his features into handsome. I study the impressive width of his shoulders and the bulge of his arms straining against the dress shirt. His jacket around my shoulders douses me in his scent and his warmth. I discretely snuggle deeper into its embrace, even though the arms hang limp and empty at my sides.

Yes, he makes me feel something. I want it to be as simple as lust; as the sad, horny girl who woke up with her dead fiancé on her mind and her hand between her legs, but it’s not that simple. I’ve always known with Decker it wouldn’t be.

“I don’t think . . .” I struggle to wrangle my thoughts set on a wild goose chase by the alcohol I’ve consumed. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

He looks at me sharply just as the doors open to his floor. We consider each other, neither making a move. The doors start closing and he catches them with one long arm.

“Come on.” He tilts his head toward the landing beyond the elevator doors. “At least let me get some coffee in you. Sober you up and save you from bad decisions you’ll regret tomorrow.”

He thinks the bad decisions are back at the party with idiots like Mike Dunlov. No, the bad decisions are behind his closed doors, but I find myself half-stumbling after him to the penthouse. As soon as we’re inside, I lean my palm onto the wall for balance and take off my stilettos. I lose another four inches, and now have to tip my head farther back to see his face.

“You’re tall.” I want to retract the obvious statement to a basketball player as soon as it trips past my liquor-loosened lips. Humor flits through his eyes briefly before concern swipes it away.

“Comes with the territory.” He walks toward the small, neat kitchen. “Come on. Coffee.”

I very carefully climb onto the leather stool at the counter, looping my bare feet on the slats. Decker makes even a simple task like making coffee look tantalizing. The play of muscles under his thin white shirt when he reaches for a mug. The efficiency of his big hands, quick and deft in the mundane preparations. There’s a rugged grace to him; like rough metal that’s been polished and chiseled until it gleams.

“You’re beautiful,” I blurt, causing him to stop what he’s doing and stare at me.

I really am drunk. I’d never say that sober.

“Wow, you really are drunk.” He echoes my thoughts, laughs and shakes his head, sliding the coffee across the marble counter top. “Drink this and I’m sure I’ll be less beautiful soon.”

I hope so because if he keeps looking like that, I can’t be held responsible.

And isn’t that what I want? For one night not to feel responsible? Not to feel guilty or condemned? Ashamed of my part in Will’s irreversible decision? All night I’ve wanted to feel something, and in this moment, I feel everything. Like a wall dropped and every painful thought and emotion rushed in before I could get my guard back up.

“It’s today,” I speak into the quiet filled with only the hum of appliances.

“What’s today?” Decker leans his elbows on the counter, gathering both huge fists under his chin and watching me closely, waiting for more.

I think he already knows. I feel like all night everyone knew that I was desperate to forget the significance of this day.

“Um . . . a year ago today, Will died.” I run a fingernail over the silky material stretching across my thighs.

“I’m sorry, Avery.” Sincerity lays heavy in the dark eyes, unlit by his usual good humor.

“Did you know it was suicide?” The words cut my tongue like a razor. “That he took his own life? Right in our apartment.”

“I didn’t know. Did you . . .” His compassion reshapes to horror. “Did you find him, Avery?”

The horrible tableau plays out across my mind again like it has countless times before.

“Yeah.” My whisper breaks. “I found him, but I was too late.”

Despite the warmth of his jacket around me, I shiver like I’m back there; like the premonition that slid over me when I entered our apartment that night is revisiting my skin and reminiscing with my bones.

“Shit, Ave.” Decker crosses around the counter to me, his taut stomach hitting my bent knees while I sit on the stool. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was . . . he was . . .” My teeth rattle, shock shaking me like I’m standing in that bathroom again. “In the water. In our bathtub with so much blood.”

Deck pulls me closer by the shoulders while tears course over my cheeks and dampen the fine cotton of his shirt. I can’t catch my breath. Weeping quakes my body with the stupid tears I promised myself I wouldn’t shed today. I was so determined to forget all of this tonight, and here I am a sloppy mess all over Mack Decker. His wide, warm palms roll over my arms when his jacket falls from my shoulders and hits the thick pile carpet. He rests his hands at the curve of my neck and shoulder when my tears finally subside, his thumbs under my chin, lifting, forcing my eyes to meet his.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks softly.

I concentrate all my senses, all my focus on where his hands have been. My arms are warm from his touch. The sensitive skin of my neck tingles where his thumbs caress. The faint smell of alcohol and his expensive cologne, flares my nostrils. My heart slams into my ribs like I’ve run and leapt and landed. Wordlessly, I scoot forward on the stool, widening my legs until he’s between them, bracketed by my knees. The bold action forces the dress up to the juncture of my thighs, offering a glimpse of my black panties. His eyes drop between my legs and snap up to my face. He tries to step back, hands falling away and jaw ticking, but I latch onto one leanly muscled arm.

“Don’t.” I scoot forward more until I’m barely on the stool. “Please don’t leave me like this, Deck.”

“I’m not leaving you, Avery. I . . .” He gives a decisive shake of his head. “You’re not in a good place tonight and I won’t take advantage of that. I want to help you, not . . .”

His words trail away and his eyes are distracted, following a path along my collarbone, between my breasts, over my stomach and between my legs. I spread my thighs another inch, showing him what he’s wanted for a long time and inviting him to take it tonight.

He licks his bottom lip, a fascinating swipe of his tongue that I lean forward and mimic with my own. His pleasured groan vibrates against my mouth, but he pulls back, drawing in a deep breath and shaking his head again.

“Ave, I—”

I grip him by the neck and lick the seam of his lips. His jaw drops on a gasp, and I push my tongue in, exploring the warm, silky interior of his mouth. My hands venture between us, finding him lengthened, hardened. When I squeeze, he growls into our kiss. His hands, which have remained in deliberate discipline at his sides, encompass my waist. They’re so big his fingers almost meet at my back and his thumbs rest under my breasts. My nipples tauten in proximity to his touch.

“You’re playing with fire here.” His voice emerges rough as Brillo.

“I know exactly,” I say, my voice husky while my hand pushes up and down over his dick. “what I’m playing with.”

“Avery, we should—”

“Make me feel,” I cut in, steadily pumping him through his pants. “You want to help, then make me feel.”

Tears gather at the edges of my eyes, trickling unchecked over my face and into the corners of my mouth.

“Make me feel something other than pain, Deck.” I meet his eyes, and they reflect my sorrow back to me. He groans when my hand persists.

“Promise me,” he finally says, searching my face. “Promise me you won’t regret this tomorrow.”

A dissonant laugh flows out of me, misplaced in the grief and lust permeating the room around us.

“I can’t promise you I won’t regret this tomorrow.” I stare back at him, not hiding my pain or my passion or my confusion or my need. “I can only promise that I want it like hell tonight.”