Eloise

My palms were sweating as I gripped the edge of the table.

“You’re insane,” I whispered to Mac.

He smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Relax, Eloise. He’s not some saint. Just a spoiled rich brat. His family has money pouring out of their ears, and they’ll do anything to get him back. You could name any amount, and they’d pay.”

I shook my head, my stomach twisting. “You make it sound like it’s nothing.”

“It is nothing,” Mac said smoothly. “Think about it—you get the money, your brother’s safe, and this brat goes back to his penthouse. Everybody wins. All you gotta do is lure him in. That’s your specialty, isn’t it?”

His words stung because once, long ago, he was right. Back then, I knew how to bat my lashes and make men follow me like moths to a flame. But that was a different life, one I’d buried under coffee stains and double shifts.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

“You can,” Mac pressed, his voice low and commanding. “Unless you want to go home and watch your brother bleed out next time they come knocking. Choose, Eloise. Your pride, or his life.”

My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. I hated him. I hated myself more.

I pushed back my chair and stood. “Fine.”

Mac leaned back with a satisfied grin. “That’s my girl. Just go out there. Get his attention. Reel him in, nice and slow.”

The bass from the DJ rattled my ribs as I stepped onto the dance floor. Bodies moved around me, lights flashing red and blue, the smell of sweat and perfume mingling in the heavy air.

I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaled, and let the beat wash over me.

When I opened them, I felt it. Eyes. Watching.

I turned, and there he was. The hazel-eyed man.

He stood at the bar, glass in hand, looking at me like I was the only thing in the room worth noticing. His lips lifted slightly, just the faintest smile, and heat crept up my neck.

I tilted my head, my gaze lingering. Why don’t you come over? I asked silently with my eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t move, just watched. Then his smirk deepened, and I forced myself to look away, letting the music claim me.

The DJ shifted tracks, and to my surprise, it was my song. My jam. The one that always made my body respond before my mind could catch up.

So I stopped pretending.

I let the rhythm guide me, my hips swaying, arms sliding up, fingers trailing through the air. My heart pounded to the beat. Sweat dampened my hairline, but I didn’t care. For the first time that night, I felt almost free.

About a half song later, someone's heat of nearness washes over me. It takes a serious amount of effort, but I don’t open my eyes, not yet. I wait, continuing to sway to the music, and finally, he moves a little closer. My senses are flooded with his clean, sandalwood scent, and I froze for half a second, every nerve in my body sparking.

My eyes flew open staring into hazel ones. So close I could see flecks of gold in them under the flashing lights. Was it just me or this place is lacking breathing air?

“Mind if I join you?” His voice was low, smooth, and threaded with amusement.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. He leaned closer, his lips brushing my ear as he spoke over the thrum of music. “You were dancing like you wanted me here.”

I swallowed hard. My voice finally returned, sounding like a squeak. “Maybe I did.”

His movements are a little loose from the liquor, but he keeps up, and when I brace my hands on his shoulders, bringing myself in a little more, he allows it.

“Well, look at that,” I tease. “We’re almost dancing.”

A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, and I suck in a deep breath when his free hand falls to my hip. “You’re brave for wearing this thing.” He tugs at the short stretchy fabric I was wearing.

“Do you like it?”

He frowns and a low laugh leaves me, but I don’t say anything else, the heat of his hand frying my brain. It’s all I can think about.

His hands on me.

With each passing second, my fantasies pull me deeper, my heartbeat growing erratic.

Moving with his body brushing mine, serves as an accelerator, pumping my blood at a quickened rate, sending the alcohol I had taken earlier coursing through me straight to my brain, and with it, washing away my sense of reason, or at least that’s the only thing I can come up with as to why I suddenly dare to drag my hands a little lower.

Hips still rolling, I slowly run my palms over the curve of his shoulders, gliding them over the cuts of his pecs.

The bass of the music pounds wildly beneath our feet, the lights change colors, dimming the space around us, and the crowd seems to shuffle in. We’re barricaded now, the stranger and me.

I didn't know what came over me but my fingers find their way into his hair, and I scratch at the base of his skull in a gentle, massage-like motion. I shift the slightest bit, on accident, and he hisses as my thigh brushes the proof of his arousal.

He’s hard.

Holy shit, he’s hard because of me.

I start a new rhythm, my body applying the smallest bit of pressure to his package with every move, and his hands come up, clutching on to my wrist, his lips finding my ear.

“What are you doing?”

Tequila is heavy on his breath and sends a zing of anticipation down my spine.

“What am I doing?” I repeat his question and I pull back to meet his drawn-in gaze. “I’m doing whatever I want. I am pretty sure you are familiar with that.”

His features pull, tightening at every inch.

I crush my lips to his.