He leans back and puts his arm around the back of my chair. “What else did you say to her?”

I try and think of something sexy to say. “I asked her what position her groom preferred.”

He smirks and glances up at the groom, who is standing at the altar with his groomsmen as he waits. “Hmm . . .”

“I think missionary,” I whisper.

“No.” He twists his lips as he looks him up and down. “Reverse cowgirl.”

“Reverse cowgirl?” I frown. “Why do you think that?”

He leans in and puts his lips to my ear. “He looks like a nerd, which means he would have watched an exponential amount of porn in his youth.”

I frown in question.

“The very best way to watch your own girl in a porno is reverse cowgirl.” He winks. “Front-row seat to watch your cock slide in deep to make her moan.”

Oh . . .

I get a visual of what he’s just told me. I flutter down below and swallow the lump in my throat. Jeez.

“What’s your favorite position?” he whispers into my ear.

Reverse cowgirl sounds pretty good.

“Um.” I try to think of a sexy answer, but he’s fried my brain, and I’ve got absolutely nothing. “It’s private,” I whisper back. “Why, what’s yours?”

“Lots of favorites.” He circles his finger on my shoulder. “I do like sex swings.”

I frown. What the hell? He has a sex swing?

“I love the uninhibited submission it gives me.” His finger circles lower down my back. His breath dusts my skin, and he may as well be trailing his finger over the lips of my sex, because that’s exactly where I’m feeling it.

A slow pulse begins to throb.

I get a vision of him naked and hard, tying me into a sex swing, dominating me in the most depraved way, and I clench to try and get some friction down there.

This man is a master seducer. I’m about to blow in just three whispered sentences.

Fake date.

The chairs begin to fill, and Henley looks around as his finger circles my shoulder. After a while he leans in and murmurs in my ear, “What panties are you wearing?”

What?

“Why do you want to know that?” I whisper.

“Because as I feel your skin beneath my fingers, I’m imagining myself being on my knees in front of you, peeling you out of them with my teeth. I want a visual of what I’m about to take off right here in front of everyone.”

Hold the phone . . . hold the fucking phone, because I am dead.

I look up at him, and he gives me the best come-fuck-me look of all time.

The air between us is thick and heavy.

“Henley,” I breathe.

He bends and softly nips my ear with his teeth. “Yes,” he whispers. His breath is quivering. He’s as hot for this as I am.

“Behave yourself,” I whisper.

“Give me a color.”

“White,” I reply before my mouth-to-brain filter kicks in.

Satisfaction flashes across his face as his dark eyes hold mine.

The wedding waltz begins, and I’m snapped out of my arousal fog as the bride begins to walk down the aisle.

My body watches the nuptials as I hover way in the sky, watching Henley and me from above. He holds my hand in his lap, and I’m melting into a puddle at his touch. Imagining cowgirls in sex swings and public oral orgasms with legs over shoulders during weddings.

This bad man makes me think about bad things.

Four hours later

“So, Henley,” Warren asks across the table, “tell me, what do you do?”

“I’m an engineer.” Henley smiles, but his smile doesn’t touch his eyes, and I get the feeling that Warren annoys the shit out of him.

The reception is dragging. We’ve had dinner, and Henley has been answering a barrage of questions from my work friends. He’s charming the pants off all of them, of course, and they are officially hanging on his every word. And me, well, I just want the wedding to be over . . . but then, I don’t want the wedding to be over. Because then my one date with him will be over, and to be honest, I’m really into him being all over me.

Henley picks up my hand and puts it on his lap under the table.

“What do you do, Warren?” Henley asks him.

“I’m a nurse.”

“What’s your favorite part of the job?” he continues as he discreetly slides my hand up over his crotch. I can feel that he’s hard, and it takes all my strength not to wrap my hand around it.

Fuckity fuck.

I pick up my wine as I act casual. No big deal I’m feeling up my fake boyfriend who I hate in front of my work friends.

“I like walking out of my shift knowing that I gave my all to my patients,” Warren continues.

“It must be very rewarding,” Henley replies. He flexes his hardened dick under my hand, and I nearly choke on my wine.

“We should dance, puppy,” Henley says.

Chloe’s and Leonie’s eyes widen with excitement.

I roll my lips to hide my smile. “Should we?”

“Uh-huh.” He stands and takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor and takes me into his arms. And we begin to sway to the slow music.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” I say as I act serious.

“Well . . . it’s your fault that I call you that.”

“How is it my fault?” I gasp.

“You shouldn’t have such great puppies.”

“Puppies?”

“Yes, you know. Breasts. The things I should be sucking on right about now.”

My mouth falls open as we sway. “If you say these things on a fake date, what on earth would you say on a real date?”

He pauses as if thinking for a moment. “I would tell you that you look beautiful. Like a dream come true.”

I smile up at him as we dance. “You charmer, you.”

“And I would tell you that it has taken every inch of my strength not to kiss you tonight.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

“And I would tell you that you should be thankful that you are dodging a bullet.”

My heart swells.

“What would you say to me?” he asks softly.

“I would tell you to shut up and kiss me anyway.”

His eyes hold mine, and something shifts. We move from the pretend world to a real one.

In slow motion, his lips drop and softly brush mine.

Oh . . .

Our kiss deepens, right here on the dance floor for all to see.

And every cell in my body lights up as if this is my first kiss . . . maybe it is.

Because I’ve never been so swept away in the moment with anyone.

We kiss again, and we are no longer swaying to the music.

Time has stopped.

Goose bumps are all over my skin, butterflies are dancing in my stomach, and the ache between my legs has built to a tsunami.

He pulls back and looks down at me, a frown crossing his brow.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper.

“Nothing.” He steps back from me. “We should get going.”

“What?”

He takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor.

“But I’m not done kissing you yet,” I stammer.

He glances over his shoulder at me and then turns and marches down the corridor, pulling me behind him.

“Where are we going?” I ask.