And me? I’m at the bar, pretending to be utterly fascinated by my drink.
Of course, that’s when Ethan slides onto the stool next to me, close enough that his cologne wraps around me like a trap.
“Can’t believe you’re drinking alone,” he murmurs. “At a wedding, no less. Tragic.”
I sip my champagne without looking at him. “The drink’s better company than the groomsman I was paired with,” I quip.
He grins. “Careful. I might start thinking you like me.”
My face grows hot, but I try to sound unbothered. “You’re delusional.”
“And you need to dance,” he returns, holding out his hand. “Come on, firecracker.”
I blink at his hand. Didn’t someone else call me firecracker recently? Before I can remember who and when, Ethan’s hand is wrapped around my wrist, and he’s gently pulling me up to my feet.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at him.
Then I let him lead me onto the dance floor.
The music slows as we step between couples, and suddenly it feels like the world narrows to just us. His palm settles at the small of my back, warm even through the satin of my dress. My other hand finds his shoulder, and I instantly regret it—it’s solid, strong, the kind of body made for sin and bad decisions.
We start to sway, moving to the rhythm, our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. I focus on breathing, on the soft rustle of fabric, on not giving in to the urge to rest my head against his chest.
“You clean up nice,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my temple. “But you already knew that.”
I scoff, trying to sound indifferent even as my pulse stutters. “Flattery’s your default setting, isn’t it?”
His lips tilt into that infuriating grin. “Only when it works.”
“You’re assuming it’s working.”
He dips his head, his nose skimming my cheek, and I feel his smile. “You’re assuming it’s not.”
God help me, he’s right.
The air between us feels charged, electric. His thumb traces idle circles against my spine, each one burning a little deeper. My body moves closer without my permission, drawn by something magnetic and dangerous.
When our eyes meet again, there’s no laughter left—just heat.
It’s too much. Too intimate. Too everything.
“I shouldn’t,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
His answer is a low growl against my ear. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”
The song changes, but neither of us stops moving. His thigh brushes mine. My breath hitches. The tension that’s been building for weeks stretches thin, trembling like a live wire between us.
“Ethan…” I start, but my voice fades when he leans in close enough that his lips ghost over the corner of my mouth.
“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he murmurs, his hand tightening just slightly at my waist. “But if you don’t, I’m going to kiss you like I’ve been dying to.”
I should walk away. I should think about Seb, about what this means, about everything.
Instead, I tilt my head just enough that our lips brush—a spark that ignites into a wildfire.
The kiss starts slow, teasing, but the moment I sigh into it, Ethan takes over. His hand slides up my spine, his tongue coaxes mine into a dance of its own, and suddenly I’m lost.
Someone laughs nearby, and reality slams back in. I pull away, breathing hard, but Ethan’s hand catches mine before I can escape.
