I led him past the restrooms, farther down the narrow hallway, to a tiny abandoned alcove overlooking the DJ station. We were trapped at a dead end, secluded around a corner but by no means hidden. Other than the wall forming the back of the club, the rest of the space around us was open, and only a waist-high glass wall kept us from falling to the dance floor below. “Okay. Touch me over here.”

He raised an eyebrow, ran a long finger across my collarbone, from one shoulder to the other. “What exactly are you offering?”

I met those strangely backlit eyes that seemed so amused by everything around him. He looked normal, so sane for someone who followed me through a club and bluntly told me he wanted to touch me. I remembered Andy, and how rarely—outside of keeping up appearances—he ever wanted my touch, my conversation, my anything. Is this how it happened for him? A woman would pull him aside, offer herself, and he would take whatever he could before coming home to me? Meanwhile, my life had become so small I could hardly remember how I used to fill the long nights alone.

Was it greedy to want it all? A career to die for, and a crazy moment here and there?

“You’re not a psychopath, are you?”

Laughing, he bent to kiss my cheek. “You’re making me feel a touch crazy, but no, I’m not.”

“I just . . .” I started, and then looked down. I pressed my hand flat against his chest. His gray sweater was unbelievably soft—cashmere, I thought. His jeans were dark, and fit him perfectly. His black shoes were unscuffed. Everything about him was meticulous. “I only just moved here.” It seemed a fitting explanation for how much my hand was shaking against him.

“And a moment like this doesn’t feel very safe, does it?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.” But then I reached up, wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him to me. He moved willingly, bending down and smiling just before our lips met. The kiss was both the perfect kind of soft and the perfect kind of hard, with the scotch warming his lips against mine. He groaned a little when I opened my mouth and let him in, and the vibration set me on fire. I wanted to feel every one of his sounds.

“You taste like sugar. What’s your name?” he asked.

With that, I felt my first real pulse of panic. “No names.”

He pulled back to look at me, eyebrows inching up. “What’ll I call you?”

“What you’ve been calling me.”

“Petal?”

I nodded.

“And what’ll you call me when you’re about to come?” He gave me another small kiss.

My heart jerked hard in my chest at the thought. “I don’t think it matters what I call you, does it?”

Shrugging, he conceded, “I don’t suppose so.”

I took his hand, brought it to my hip. “I’ve been the only person to give myself an orgasm for the past year.” Moving his fingers to the edge of my dress, I whispered, “Can you change that?”