Prescott grabbed her drink, and together, they endured another hour of the event. Fordham never came to find them, and as soon as they could manage, they snuck out. Prescott deposited her back into Fordham’s rooms a little drunker than she’d started.

Kerrigan pulled the stays of her dress loose, and she took a deep inhale for the first time that night. Then, she collapsed back on the bed, the room spinning. She hadn’t had as much to drink as the night she’d gone out with her friends, which felt like a full lifetime ago. But the faerie punch here was potent. Maybe even more so than back home.

She didn’t know when she drifted off, but she woke again to the sound of a door closing in the darkened room. “Hello?”

And then Fordham’s tall figure appeared in the entrance to the bedroom. His cravat had been discarded, the jacket of his suit hanging over his shoulder and the first few buttons undone on his shirt. His eyes were hollow. His body a map of sensuality.

“Fordham,” she said, coming up to one elbow. Her mind was still fuzzy. “How long were you at the party?”

“Hours after you,” he said, dropping the jacket onto a divan and walking to the bed. His steps were unsteady, as if he, too, were drunk.

“Have you been drinking?”

He kicked off his shoes. “Yes.”

She swallowed as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The material opening to reveal the smooth planes of his abdomen and the muscular build of his chest. “What are you doing?”

“You responded when I offered you commands,” he said with a playful smile on his lips as he let the shirt drop to the ground. “Normally, you just yell at me.”

“I couldn’t be that person tonight.”

He crawled forward on the massive bed. She remained as still as possible. She had never felt quite like she was trapped and wanted to be nowhere else.

“I almost missed that mouth of yours,” he said, dragging a finger along her red-painted lips.

“Fordham,” she whispered hesitantly. It was one thing to play-act this. It was another to do… this. Because when he was sober, he didn’t want this. He’d made that clear. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” he said.

His mouth covered hers, hot and tasting of strawberries and honey. She knew that she should stop him. A part of her told her that this couldn’t happen. And yet there was no stopping Fordham Ollivier. He was a hurricane wreaking havoc on her heart. His mouth ravaging her.