Bloody hell.

Bennett and Chloe had left, chased off by George, who said he’d rather light himself on fire than watch the two of them make out. I ordered a gin and tonic, then another, contributing to the conversation before eventually becoming lost in my own jumbled thoughts. I went from tangled, to calm, to tipsy, finally convincing myself it was a good idea, at one in the bloody morning, to go upstairs and see her.

“Where you headed?” Max asked. “This is my one night a month out. No sodding way you’re cutting out early.”

“Meetings all day tomorrow, mate. G’night.”

I ignored their catcalls and continued on to the elevator, to the tenth floor, to the door that led to her room.

My knuckles landed heavily on the wood; Jesus, even my knock sounded drunk.

After a few tense seconds, the door opened and Ruby stood before me in a tiny pink silk tank top and matching shorts that barely covered her—

Dear God.

She weaved slightly against the door. “Everything okay, Mr. Stella?”

I cleared my throat once, and then again. “Bloody hell. Do you always sleep in that?”

“Yes . . .” she said, and I could hear her smile when she added, “unless there is an agent of pleasure in here with me.”

Finally I could tear my eyes from the sight of her breasts, bare beneath the camisole. “You love to tease me.”

Her tongue slipped out, wetting her lips. “Yeah.”

I stood at the doorway, feeling like I must be looking at her the way a man would look at a woman he desired if he hadn’t had dinner, or sleep, or masturbated in days.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked. “I’ll warn you. I’ve had a few cocktails. But I do have a few items left unclaimed in the minibar if you like Midori or Jägermeister.”

“I shouldn’t touch you,” I blurted and immediately squeezed my eyes closed. “Sorry. I’ve been drinking as well, and . . .” Opening my eyes, I looked at her face. She was smiling, looking . . . relieved. “I don’t know why I’m here. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened today, and how much I wanted to see you. But I really shouldn’t touch you, Ruby.”

I could see her pulse in her neck. I could tell that she was trembling.

“You shouldn’t?” she asked. “Or you don’t want to?”

Without answering and without really thinking about what I was doing, I stepped forward, moving into her room. She took a step back, letting the door close behind me. The thud reverberated in the quiet.

“Is it really true what you said earlier?” I asked. “You think about this? With me?”

She flushed, from her neck to her cheeks, but still managed to sound brave when she said, “Yeah.”

She’d stopped moving but I hadn’t. I kept drifting forward until I was barely an inch away from her. In fact, I could feel her breath on my neck. Could smell the sweetness of orange juice, the sharp tang of vodka on her lips.

This is stupid, Niall. Get the hell out of this room.

“What do you think about?” I asked.

“Having you in my hotel room.” She smiled, looking at my lips. “As an agent of pleasure.”

Laughing a little, I ran my hand down my face, admitting, “These past few days . . . I think about it, too. You’ve hijacked my brain.”

“Is that bad?”

I looked down at her. She looked nervous but also confident; I was here in her room; she’d regained at least some of the power between us. “No, it’s not a bad thing. I’m just not sure I know what to do with you.” I had no idea why I said this, but it didn’t seem to trip her up in the slightest.

“We’d figure it out together.”

Meeting her eyes, I asked, “Would we?”

Ruby nodded, reaching out and putting her hand on my chest. “I understand you. I think you understand me, too.”

I swallowed, at a loss for words.

“I’d tell you what I like,” she whispered. “You’d tell me what you need.”

She ran her hand down my chest, over my stomach, and then—just before she reached my belt—she let it fall away.

I should leave. I should go to my room and let us both sleep it off.

Looking up at me, she asked, “What do you need?”

“This,” I said. “The odd certainty I feel when I’m this close to you. The way you look at me.”

Her wide eyes searched mine. “A lot of women look at you this way.”

“No, you’re wrong. Maybe they look at me the way men look at you—where it’s clear they want you, and are thinking of you sexually—but not the way you do, where it feels you can see beneath my skin.” Pausing, I added, “Besides, I’ve never been one to want ‘a lot of women.’ ”