“I thought so from the minute you walked in the door. I love looking at you in this dress. And those sexy shoes . . .” He swallows, his eyes dipping to the swell of my cleavage. “Dancing with you like that was killing me.”

“Me too,” I admit, and the room spins a little because I want this. His words, his mouth, his touch . . . him. “This is crazy.”

“Then tell me to stop,” he says, even as his hands skim up and down my sides.

“I don’t want you to.”

He groans in satisfaction. “Good, because I’ve been dying to do this . . .” He reaches for the hem of my skirt, tugging it up to give his hands access to my skin.

“Just that?” I ask.

He nips my neck, his mouth trailing up and down—kissing, sucking, biting. Hot bolts of pleasure arc down my spine and have me arching closer. “All of this,” he murmurs. “I’m not done yet.”

I encourage him with a low hum of approval. I love the feel of his rough fingertips over my hipbones, relish the scrape of his callouses across sensitive skin as he traces the satin waistband of my panties. His lazy fingers that send shivers down my arms and make my knees weak.

I pull his shirt free from his dress pants and fumble with the buttons. Three buttons in, impatience has me abandoning my task. I slide my hands under his shirt, needing the feel of his skin, needing to get closer.

He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and I gasp. I rock my hips forward in pleasure, but he shifts his stance, denying me the friction I need. Before I can protest, he cups me between my legs. His fingers dance across the satin in light, teasing strokes. He growls. “You’re wet.”

I shift my hips, chasing his teasing touch. “You’re observant.”

He chuckles against my ear and finally gives me the pressure I’m dying for, rubbing my clit. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Please.” The word rips from my throat. I don’t care about anything but the feel of his hand between my legs and the need that’s growing bigger and bigger within me, erasing everything else that I am and replacing it with need. Please, please, please.

Slipping his fingers beneath the scrap of fabric, he grazes his knuckles right down my center and across my clit. He circles a finger right where I’m aching and most desperate for him.

“Carter,” I beg. This is a fantasy. A waking dream. The alcohol in my blood makes everything hazy, but I can’t blame it for this attraction between us. I’ve spent years pretending it’s not there. Pretending we’re nothing more than friends who know how to make each other laugh.

When he plunges a finger inside me, I’m already wound so tight that I think I might come immediately. All my focus, my energy, my need narrows to that one spot, and my body clenches.