I press against him. “Tequila. It’s what I’ve been drinking tonight.”

“Hey, you,” the bartender purrs to Slade, cat eyes glowing with interest.

I look between them, trying not to look jealous or territorial. The way she’s staring at him makes me wonder if they’ve hooked up.

“Two tequila limes,” he requests, not unkindly.

I step up closer to Slade, wanting her to know he isn’t alone. At least, not anymore. She takes a nice, long look at me, and I her. Her eyes are judgmental, telling me to step down. I raise my brows, as if her wordless request is laughable. Pursing her red lips in annoyance, she grabs two shot glasses and fills them to the brim. My friends in LA are the hugest bitches on earth. If she thinks an evil glare is enough to shake me, she has no idea whom she’s dealing with.

“I’ll add it to your tab,” she tells Slade, seductively inching closer to him.

I’ve got to give her props; she doesn’t give up easy.

I put my hand on his arm to regain his attention. When he turns to me, a liquid smile moves across his face, and I know I’ve won. The bartender, no matter how high her tits are pushed up or how little she’s wearing, doesn’t stand a chance. Clinking our glasses, we shoot them back. I make sure to look at her from my side-eye. She’s watching—and now, she knows. I wrap my arms around his thick neck and press my lips against his. They’re hot and full and so good. Tonight, this man is mine.

The strobe lights fly across the room in riotous colors. We’ve been dancing and drinking nonstop. His heavy hands roam over my body on the dance floor when I realize I haven’t had this much fun since we were together at the wedding. As I bite my cheek, my smile won’t wane.

I’m the type of girl who pictures all possible outcomes before I get myself involved in anything. But, with Slade, I’m somehow free. With him, I don’t feel the need to know every detail or potential result. Maybe it’s because he and I are so different, and a future between us is so improbable that there’s nothing to think about other than the moment. Whatever it is, I love it. And, by the way he’s acting, he does, too.

“So fucking glad you’re here,” he says again, pulling me back to the bar to order more shots.

We don’t have time to sip on drinks. We want to get drunk and dance. Perspiration beads at his forehead, and I get another flashback of how he sweat above me in the back of his truck. His smile tells me he knows what I’m thinking. At this point, all embarrassment is gone. I’m glad he knows. I want it again.

We clink our glasses together—I think it’s my third and his fifth—and swallow them down before he moves his hands to my face and angles it upward. Our kiss is scorching. His tongue, so hot in my mouth, is a direct line to my panties. I’m soaked.