Gage’s proximity made it hard for Lizzie to breathe.

Or maybe it was that her dress, at least five years old, was snug around . . . well, all over.

Whether it was the Cosmo or the glass of wine she’d had before he’d arrived, her tongue felt loose and her thoughts a little sluggish, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when she saw her fingers hook around the belt loops of his pants.

His bracketing arms tensed, and Lizzie allowed her gaze to slowly climb the smart, gray vest he wore. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Gage, it was downright sinful. Charlie Hunnam, sinful; Tom Hardy, sinful. Beneath the vest, he wore a black button-down, the sleeves rolled casually up to his elbows. His five o’ clock shadow was in full force tonight, maybe more like a six, but even his nearly black attire couldn’t match the darkness of his eyes.

Smoothed over, polished onyx.

If she had to pick a gemstone to represent the hue of his gaze, that would be it.

And if she had to select an eye shadow color . . . Midnight Passion.

No other shadow held as much pigment; no other shadow possessed such a pure absence of any other hue.

She licked her bottom lip, tasting the sweet flavor of her lipstick, and watched with a small shiver and a lot of delight as those black-as-night eyes surrendered to lust. Midnight Passion, indeed.

“Is this our first fight?” she asked, infusing just enough dryness into her tone so he knew she was only teasing him, trying to poke light back into the conversation. “Which one of us is going to storm off and get wasted?”

His cheeks hollowed with a gruff chuckle. “We’re not fighting. We’re just . . .”

“Having a disagreement?”

“Yeah.”

“A horse with no name is still a horse.”

Shifting his weight, he pulled one hand away from the bar and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Debonair. It was the perfect word for him. Debonair and . . . enticing. What would he do if she used her finger in his belt loop to tug him closer? Lizzie didn’t have any personal experience on the topic, but she’d heard from friends that makeup sex was the best type of sex.

“You know that makes no sense, right?” He shook his head, a smile lightening his naturally broody features. “Where did you even come up with that?”

A small shrug of her shoulders. “Half-song, half-natural creativity. If you thought about it, you’d realize it does make sense. Disagreements and fighting are practically synonyms in this context, so, really—”

“What am I going to do with you, princess?”

Kiss me.

Not that she said that.

She’d already reached her daily quota for kiss-begging.

Lizzie studied his rugged face. “You could buy me another drink.”

“I could.”

Heat swept over her as he moved in, his big body eating up the space between them. Lizzie wasn’t short by any means, but compared to Gage? She felt tiny, delicate, especially when he withdrew his hand from his pocket and settled it on the curve of her waist.

She wanted to blame the unevenness of her breathing on the dress, on the too-tight straps and the even tighter bodice. All lies. It was him, Gage, who had her panting like she’d run a half-marathon or like she’d had an hour-long sex marathon. Gage who backed her up flush against the bar, and dropped his face to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Gage who made her question everything—life, sex, nothing at all—as her thoughts emptied like a sieve and left her with only one last thing.

Desire.

A deep inhale through her nose did nothing to abate the pulse between her legs or the heavier tempo of her heart.

Could he hear it?

Her heart beating?

The music changed, switched over to the next track, and the song that emerged could only be labeled as one thing: a sex song.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because as the couples on the dance floor set the club on fire, Lizzie was burning up—and except for that one hand on her waist, Gage wasn’t even touching her.

Then he did.

With the blunt tip of his finger, he moved the strap of her dress to the side. The polyester skimmed her skin, calling goose bumps to her flesh, and then his mouth pressed down. Teeth grazing her skin in a soft, taunting nip. Tongue swiping out to soothe the sting. Lips brushing the tender spot with barely-there pressure.

Lizzie’s head fell back, and Gage took advantage, delivering the same attention to her neck. Slower, though. It was sensual and seductive and it was nothing at all like the frantic sex sessions—the frantic two-minute sessions—she’d had in the past with her exes.

“Gage,” she whispered, desperate fingers grasping his corded forearms. Pushing him away, pulling him closer; in that moment, it was all the same.

He pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear, “Dance with me, princess.”

“Now?”

“You know of a better time?”

“Valid point.” Unwilling to give him the upper hand, Lizzie sauntered past him, stopping only to link her hand with his, and then pulled him to the dance floor.

The strobe lights were blinding, a little nauseating, and Lizzie centered her attention on the sexy-as-hell man in front of her instead.

As did every other female in their general area.

Gage commanded attention; it was simply the best way to put it. There were no awkward dance moves for him. Instead, he flashed her a wink and a grin, and proceeded to show her that if she wanted to keep up, she’d have to work hard.

Working hard had never been Lizzie’s downfall.

She approached him with a sassy sway to her hips, sending a small thank-you up to the music gods when the song changed again, this time to something with a heavy Latin beat.

Brilliant.

Thanks to outings with Jade, who was half-Cuban, Lizzie knew exactly how to move her body.

Eat your heart out, Gage Harvey.

Hand on his shoulder, she circled him once, then stepped back into his line of sight. Not that he looked at all tempted to cast his gaze elsewhere.

Lizzie shimmied. Rolled her hips. Lifted her hands to the ceiling, and kicked up her chin with a naughty smile in his direction. The rhythm of the music dictated each movement, each sharp thrust of her hips side-to-side in pure Shakira fashion.

Gage fell.

And he fell hard.

His hands found her hips, and he smoothly spun her around.

Her back to his chest, his breath warm against her ear. Strong, masculine thighs clenched behind hers.

It was a heavenly blend of bliss and torture, and Lizzie had no shame in tugging his left hand away from her hip and folding it across her middle, just below her breasts, as her head fell back against his shoulder.

“You’re killing me,” came his guttural voice in her ear. “You’re fucking killing me, Lizzie.”

Lizzie, not princess.

She smiled, and didn’t stop. But she did twist her head just so, to stare up at him. “Are you complaining?”

His fingers tightened against her. “Hell no.”

Black met blue, their gazes clashing in the middle of the crowded club. And Lizzie . . . she breathed it all in, soaked up the excitement, as well as the nerves of having him so close. It was the most thrilling moment she’d had in years with a man, if ever, and she never wanted it to end.

Forever isn’t an option.

Her hips paused, slowed, and then regained momentum as she pushed those thoughts of more away. This wasn’t about more, and it wasn’t about forever. It was about now, about the music threading through her soul, and the lust heating her core.

It was about being with this man and thinking of no one else.

She slipped her hand up into his hair, swirling her hips, enjoying the way his dark lashes fluttered shut to fully enjoy the sensation.

“I’m sorry I made you feel less than.”

The words against her temple were a shock to her system. “What?”

He opened his eyes. Smooth onyx, she thought, the color of his eyes were the exact hue of onyx.

“At Naked You the other day,” he explained, never missing a beat as they danced, “I never intended to make you feel less than brilliant. There are things . . .” His breath whooshed out. “I’ve spent too many years on the wrong side of the coin, the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. And I spent the same number of years working my ass off to be judged on my work ethic, nothing else. So I’m sorry, that’s all. Offending you wasn’t my intention.”

Her belly quivered with the rough admission, and she suspected that admitting anything didn’t come naturally to a man like Gage Harvey.

Even in heels, she had to lift on her toes to even put their lips in the same stratosphere. His black eyes burned bright, a silent dare for her to take what she wanted, and Lizzie planned to do just that.

“Gage, I—”

Her belly quivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the man wrapped around her, and everything to do with that telltale sloshing sensation taking up habitat in her stomach.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

“Princess?” His hand slipped from her belly to her back, and that encouraging touch was almost worse than anything else he could have done.

Her gaze darted to the right, to the left.

And even as she made a break for the black trash bin posted against the wall, she knew exactly what was coming.

She didn’t make it.

Three feet from the garbage can, she keeled over, hands on her knees, and threw up in front of every club-goer, bartender, and worst of all, in front of Gage Harvey.