“Oh no,” Drew says over a laugh. “Don’t do it. You’ll scare her away and never get her back.”

I pout as Justin Timberlake fills the bar and, damn, if it isn’t my favorite track. “What are you talking about? I’m an amazing dancer.” Scare her away? Fair enough, I’m usually ten sheets to the wind whenever I take to the dance floor, but since everyone keeps calling me uptight these days, perhaps I should flatten that stupid claim once and for all. I am not uptight. I’m in love.

I divert toward the dance floor as Sam, grinning, takes Ava’s shoulders and turns her toward me. When she spots me, she looks wary, her body slowing until she’s motionless. That dress. Fucking hell, that dress. I loathe it and love it.

I get up close to her, hauling her up my body. “You’re going to get a lot of men dropped if you keep dancing like that,” I tell her, forcing myself to keep my eyes on her and not the endless men appreciating what’s mine. “You like a bit of JT?”

“Yes.” She can hardly get her words out, and it makes me smile, wide and bright.

“Me too.” I slam my mouth on hers, making a point to all watching, before releasing her and spinning her on the spot. Her face is a picture. Yes, I’m doing this. In public. I haul her back into me and drop my mouth to her ear. “And it’s the extended version.”

She has no idea what to make of this, looking between me and Sam, as if he will confirm what’s about to go down. She’d never guess. But before I can demonstrate how fucking amazing I am on the dance floor, she’s trumped me, throwing the surprise back at me, slipping down my body to the point I’m pretty sure that fucking dress is riding up her arse. But it’s easy to disregard when she’s looking up at me like she is, sex written all over her face. Looking at me. I’m going to take her in every way imaginable, fuck her until she promises to never leave me. This look. I want it every day. Minus the drink.

She starts slowly rising, and I fold at the waist when her nose traces the fly of my jeans. Shit. What’s she playing at? I grab her and drag her up before I relent to my mind’s demand to fuck her here and now with an audience. “I should bend you over here and fuck you until you scream.” My body is alive, my mind clear, my heart pounding. “That dress is absurd.” I spin her out and do the unthinkable. I dance. Sober. In a fucking bar in central London, I dance. What is she doing to me?