“I know your husband was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world. I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I know I should leave right now, before I do something stupid.”

Her lips opened. She sucked in her breath, her chest rising. “Like what?”

“Like this.” Sliding both hands into her hair, I crushed my mouth to hers. It was not the first kiss I’d imagined the other night in the winery—a sweet and gentle tasting of one another, a tentative meeting of wine-drenched tongues. This was a hot, searing, scotch-fueled, red-dress kiss that ate up all the oxygen in the room. My lips opened wide and slanted over hers, my tongue lashing between them. My body curved above hers, my heart thundering in my chest. Her spine bowed slightly, and I felt her breasts pressing against me. Her hands moved up my sides and around my back—then she shocked me by sliding her palms down over my ass and pulling me tighter to her. My dick was getting harder by the second, and she moaned slightly as she felt it pushing against her pelvic bone.

If there had been any doubt in my mind that she’d wanted this too, it was gone now—but did that make it right?

God, this was so fucking unfair.

I wanted to be the good guy for her, the patient gentleman, the anti-asshole. But I also really, really liked the feeling of her hair in my fingers and her tongue in my mouth and her hands grabbing my ass. It had been so long since someone wanted me this way—for no reason other than raw, unfiltered desire—and it felt so fucking good.

My mouth traveled across her cheek and down her neck. I inhaled the scent of her perfume and wished I could swim in it. Stroking her throat with my tongue, I reached down and hitched up her dress, bringing one of her legs up to my hip, gripping her thigh with my fingers.

“Henry,” she whispered. “I—”

But whatever she was going to say next was swallowed up by the loud chime of a clock on the mantle.

We jumped apart.

7. Sylvia

Seven

Sylvia

“Oh my God.” I placed a hand over my racing heart, my lungs working overtime. “That scared me!”

“Me too.” Henry grabbed the knot of his necktie and loosened it. “God, Sylvia. I’m so sorry. That won’t happen again.”

Wait—he was sorry?

Before I knew what to say, he was grabbing his suit jacket from the couch and shrugging it on. “Fuck. I left my overcoat at the party.”

“I can go back with you to get it,” I offered, although my legs felt so wobbly I wasn’t sure I’d make it.

“No.” He put a hand out, as if to stop me from coming closer to him. “You stay here. I’ll go back and get it.”