“Gin and tonic, please.”

The barman nods at me and turns to make my drink. While he’s doing that, I take a moment to glance around the room again.

I tell myself I’m not looking for him, but I can’t quite convince myself of the lie.

There’s still no sign of him though. I sigh and turn back around. The bartender slides a short crystal tumbler towards me and I smile gratefully and take a long sip.

I’m at the Trinity Central Hospital fundraiser kick-off, it’s at the Grand Windsor Hotel. The same place as the Design Times anniversary party. The same place I met Luke.

I look down at the eggplant-colored dress I’m wearing and smooth an invisible wrinkle out of the skirt. This is another of my original designs, with a halter neck and a knee-length pleated skirt. The crepe fabric is light and flowy, and, except for the color, the dress has a sort of Marilyn Monroe feel to it.

I try not to wonder what Luke will think of it. Because I don’t care. I definitely don’t care. And I definitely didn’t wear brand new lacy underwear for any reason having to do with him. No sirree.

I turn and scan the crowd again, but still nothing. Maybe he’s not coming? He has to, I think, though. Maybe he’s just running late.

And maybe I’m just paying way too much damn attention to whether he’s here yet or not. I turn back to the bar, more than a little irritated with myself. I make myself a deal: finish my drink, and then I have to go mingle. After all, I’m supposed to be here representing Bailey Living.

I take another sip of my drink. I’m just plucking the lime off the rim and squeezing it into the cocktail when his deep voice comes from behind me.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

My entire body tenses in an instant. I can practically feel his breath, warm on the back of my neck. For a second I close my eyes and let myself remember the way he pressed me up against the wall of the elevator, the way he could be so forceful and commanding, yet so sensual at the same time.

I force myself to wear a neutral smile and turn around. Then I burst out laughing.

“I see you decided to eschew the dress code?” Luke is wearing dark jeans and a red and black plaid shirt.

“Technically there is no dress code.”

“Well, I think this look works for you.”

“Thank you — from you, I’ll actually take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” My smile is more genuine now. “I like a man who owns his style.” I laugh as I see his reaction. “Luke Whittaker, are you blushing?”

“No! I’m always this color.”

“Millennial pink?”

“It’s the color of the moment, you know.”

“I’m … impressed that you know that.”

“There’s a lot about me that would impress you.”

“I think I’ve already experienced a couple of them.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. Luke grins.

“Now I think you’re the one blushing.”

“No. I’m just trying out the millennial pink thing.”

He keeps smiling as he studies my face. “Can I get you a drink?”

“It’s an open bar.”

“Even better.”

I wave my glass at him. “I already have a drink. And I promised myself I would go mingle when I was finished it.”

“You are mingling.”

“With you?”

“Yes. Now keep that sweet little ass of yours in that chair, please, and join me while I have a drink.”

“Fine.”

I shouldn’t agree. I know I shouldn’t. And yet it’s like the words come out of my mouth entirely on their own, without any direction from my brain.

“Good.”

Luke orders a scotch and I take another sip of my gin and tonic, trying to calm my racing pulse. When his drink arrives, he slides into the seat next to me and turns to face me.

“So how are you enjoying being back in Chicago?”

It’s such a benign and friendly question that it surprises me more than anything else he’s said to me so far. It takes me a moment to think of how to answer.

“It’s been hard,” I say, finally deciding to go with the truth. “I’m staying in my father’s town house and it’s hard to be around all his things and know he’s never coming back to them. And I miss my best friend and my business. I used to run a clothing line, in Paris,” I add.

He nods. “I know. Bounce Couture.” When he sees my surprised expression, he chuckles. “I looked you up.”

“I looked you up too,” I admit with a smile. “I suppose I shouldn’t say this to the competition, but your stuff is really beautiful. You’re very talented, Luke.”

“So are you, Bree,” he says softly. “I mean, I don’t have much of an eye for fashion — obviously,” he adds, gesturing down at his outfit. “But I know a beautiful thing when I see it.”

Something about the way he says the words makes my whole body break into goose bumps. His brown eyes seem to smolder right into me, burning me up. I try to swallow, but my throat seems to have shrunk to half its former size.

“Luke,” I manage to squeak out, except I have no idea how I want to follow it up, so instead I just sit there dumbly, while his slow smile grows wider with every second that I remain tongue-tied.

“There you two are!” Tomas’s cheerful voice cuts the tension between us, and it’s like an elastic band snapping. I’m suddenly able to breathe again, to swallow like a normal person.

“Hi Tomas.”

“Bree, you look lovely.” He leans in and kisses my cheek, then shakes Luke’s hand. “We’re doing photos out in the east lobby. Five minutes. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Luke and I both say at the same time, though out of the two of us, I’m the one who sounds the most relieved.

After Tomas leaves to round up the rest of the sponsors, Luke and I finish up our drinks and make our way over to the east lobby. We’re very quickly shuffled into the group that’s already being posed against the far wall, one with ornate moldings and bright modern art.

Luke shuffles in behind me as the photographer impatiently shoves us all closer and closer together. I can feel Luke’s breath on the back on my neck, and instantly my goosebumps are back, even though I’m jammed between a sweaty balding man in glasses and an elderly woman in a beaded blue gown. The only person I can think about, that I’m even remotely aware of, is Luke. His presence behind me, solid and warm.

And then suddenly … his hand is on my ass.

I let out a gasp, and the elderly woman beside me turns. “Are you alright, dear? I didn’t step on your foot, did I?”

“Oh, no,” I assure her. I can hear Luke chuckling behind me as he caresses the globe of my ass. “I just stumbled a little.”

She smiles kindly. “That’s why I never wear heels anymore. Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” She lifts the long hem of her dress, revealing a pair of royal blue Crocs.

“Very smart,” I tell her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I try to concentrate on the photographer, who’s calling out instructions to us, but all I can think about, all I can feel, is Luke’s hand on my ass. The way it drops ever so slowly lower, until he’s almost …

“Luke!” I hiss, turning around. I can feel how flushed my face is.

“Eyes on the camera, please,” the photographer says, sounding annoyed.

“Eyes on the camera,” Luke mouthes.

I shoot him another glare, but then I have no choice but to turn around and face the front, even though he keeps his hand firmly on my ass.

I plaster a smile on my face, even though the feeling of his palm against me, his fingers dipping lower, is making me weak in the knees. It’s bringing back tantalizing memories of our encounter in the elevator, and there’s a part of me — a tiny, minuscule, inappropriate part of me — that wants him to lift the skirt of my dress and slide his fingers between my legs again.

It seems to take forever to get a photo, and the photographer at the front takes snap after snap until I’m starting to see stars from the constant flashes. My feet are killing me in these heels, and I’m starting to think this lady next to me is onto something with the Crocs.

I shift my legs a little, to try to get some relief for my poor toes. Luke, however, takes my movement as an invitation. He drops his hand lower, dropping towards my crease, until he slides two fingers between my thighs.

The fabric of my dress is still providing a barrier, but I can feel his digits against me, pressing against my entrance. I’m almost sure I’m going to have a wet spot on my dress after this.

Blissfully, the photographer finally decides he’s taken enough shots, and dismisses us with a wave of his hand. I take the first opportunity to step out of Luke’s reach. I turn to glare at him, but instead of looking chagrined, he simply brings his hand to his lips, making a gesture with his tongue that is somewhere in between kissing and something much more lewd.

“Luke!” I hiss. “That was so inappropriate. You can’t just …”

He takes my arm and starts leading me away from the other people gathered for the photo. He’s leading me through the hallway back into the ballroom, but I’m not ready to let him off the hook that easily.

“No. We agreed, Luke. This is bad for both of us. People can’t see us together. What do you think would have happened if anyone had seen you groping me like that?”

Just as the words leave my mouth, an elderly man in a brown suit walks by, giving us some side-eye. I clamp my mouth shut.

Luke stops walking long enough to let the man pass, and then as soon as he’s out of sight, he pulls open the door he stopped in front of. He steps inside and pulls me in after him.

It’s a bathroom, but it’s one of the single ones meant for people in wheelchairs or with children. Luke leans past me and clicks the lock closed.

“Great,” I say sarcastically. “Because who cares if someone in a wheelchair might need to actually use the washroom, right?”

Luke doesn’t answer. His lips are still curled into a smug smile, and it drives me crazy how sexy it is. He takes a couple of steps towards me, forcing me to take a step back. He keeps coming forward though, and eventually my back is pressed up against the door and there’s nowhere else to go.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” Luke says. His voice is hoarse and gravelly, like the roar of the ocean in the shell of my ear. “I could tell how wet you were, Bree. Your pussy was begging for me, and all I want to do is give you what you want.”

“What I want is for you to leave me alone.” My words sounds meek and unconvincing, even to me.

“Are you sure?” He’s so close to me now that I can feel his breath on my neck, his chest against mine. If I moved my hips a few inches closer, I’d probably be able to feel his erection press against my stomach.

I swallow. “I’m … sure.”

“I don’t think you are,” he says, chuckling. “I think you want to feel my mouth on your pussy again. I think you want to feel me take your clit between my lips and suck. I think you want to slide my thick hard cock right into your tight pussy and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Stop,” I say. My cheeks are flaming red now and my poor black thong is hopelessly drenched. I’m pretty sure I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want Luke in this moment.

The worst part is, I know he knows.

“Make me stop,” he says. “Make me stop and I will, Bree. I promise. I promise I’ll never say another word about fucking you, about tasting you, about fingering your beautiful pink pussy, about…”

I kiss him.

It’s the only way I can think of to make him stop talking, so I press my lips to his.

It works, in that he stops talking, but now his hands are slipping around my waist, pulling me to him, and I can indeed feel his hard cock pressing up against my stomach now. I moan softly into his mouth.

I want this, I realize. I want him. It’s a bad idea — the worst, probably — yet I seem unable to stop myself.

“Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, Luke Whittaker?” I breathe, my words soft against his lips.