“Amateur.”

“Postmortem forensics is too advanced,” Brent argues.

“And where the hell would you find polonium?” Sofia adds. “Know many Russian spies, do you?”

“Remind me never to take you on as a client,” I tell him, pointing with my bourbon. “You’d ruin my winning streak.”

The dance floor in the adjacent room is filled to capacity with bodies, pitifully short on rhythm. Not many things are as funny as watching people who can’t dance but think they can.

Elated arms rise as the song “Oh What a Night” pours from the speakers. Sofia stands excitedly. “That’s my cue. Come on, Brent, let’s go shake what your momma gave ya.”

He rises. “Can’t, sweetheart, my date just walked in.”

“You have a date tonight?” Sofia asks.

“I do now.” He winks. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

As Brent walks off, Sofia looks to Jake. He sounds like Dirty Harry asking a punk if he feels lucky when he says, “Do you even need to ask?”

She saves me for last, ’cause she knows full well I don’t dance.

Still she tries, running her hand up my arm. “Want to show me your moves, Shaw?”

I chew on the toothpick between my lips. “Darlin’, I’ll show you every move I’ve got—just not on a fuckin’ dance floor.”

She giggles, then prances over to the swinging, shaking bodies. And I watch her with the gaze of a man who’s sure he’s going to get laid—and knows it’s going to be good.

Her rounded hips swivel in perfect time to the quick beat, confident and practiced. I imagine those hips straddling me—riding me—with the same fast rhythm. And I’m instantly hard.

Throbbing with remembrance and expectation.

It’s how she moves moments before she comes, tight and rapid, feeding off sensation, chasing that blissful grinding friction.

I suck hard on the toothpick in my mouth as she lifts her arms, circling her pelvis. Sofia likes her arms above her—pinned by my palms—against a bed, a wall, a hard oak desk. Fucking her is phenomenal on any given day, but screwing when she’s like this—just drunk enough—is particularly fantastic. She’s wilder, rougher—she pulls my hair just a little harder.

Begs just a little sweeter.

The bourbons I’ve downed have loosened my muscles and my mind. I’m not intoxicated, but relaxed enough to forget any worries—to give very little shit about anything. I pull at my tie as her foreplay show continues, content to watch unhurried, to let this anticipation build.

But then she turns around.

Her dark hair fans out, and I’m caught in those hazel fucking eyes. Large, almond-shaped eyes that practically glow with hunger.

She’s not just dancing in front of me, she’s dancing for me.

Her hands skim down her sides slowly, cradling her hips, squeezing. But it’s my hands she’s imagining, my grip she’s feeling. Sofia’s full lips are parted, breathing heavy, the gloss of moisture beading on her upper lip.

And I want to lick it off.

But that’ll just be the start—devouring that mouth—before licking down and around, until I’ve tasted all of her. Until every inch of her skin is branded with the feel of my tongue, my lips.

My teeth.

Twirling the toothpick against the roof of my mouth, I stand. And stalk her way. Before I reach her, Sofia turns her back, ass still swiveling.

Taunting.

Over her shoulder, she keeps her gaze trained on me. I don’t stop until I’m flush against her, my palm on her stomach, pulling her back. So she can’t have any doubt about how she’s affected me. Every hot, hard inch of effect is pressed against her ass.

“Change your mind?” she teases. “Want to dance after all?”

“I want to fuck,” I breathe against her ear, making her shiver. “You. In case there was doubt. Now.”

She thrusts back, trapping my dick between us, then sliding up and down, rubbing with sublime pressure. I swallow a groan.

“Then I guess we’re leaving.”

• • •

On the cab ride to my apartment, I make it a point not to touch her—no casual brushes of her thigh or a hand to help her exit the taxi. Because I know the waiting will key her up even more.

And because once I start, I don’t plan on stopping.

After a tense, torturous elevator ride, we stand in the hall outside my apartment door. As I put the key into the lock, Sofia’s body is close—not pressing—but near enough behind me I can smell her perfume. A clean, sweet floral scent; gardenia maybe.

We walk through the door, then I turn, using her to close it, slamming her back. Trapping her between the door and me. Hands grasp at air as I hold her wrists in one hand, high above her head, stretching her out, making her back bow. Straining for contact.

She gasps as I run my nose up her cheek, her breath escaping in tiny puffs. “You want to be fucked?” I rasp.

She moans. Squirms. “Yes.”

Sofia likes it rough—hard words, bruising fingers—and I’m all too happy to please.

I skim my free hand up her thigh, bunching her skirt as I go. “You want to come?”

She once told me one of her favorite parts of screwing me was that she can just let it all go. No worries, no stress, no shots to call. It’s the one area of her life where she’s happy to let someone else—me—do all the work.

Her chin rises, scraping soft skin against my stubble. “Please,” she begs.

“How bad?” I taunt, rubbing over her silk panties where she’s soft and hot. Her hips gyrate against my hand as I push the fabric aside and slide my fingers through her smooth, slick lips. My dark chuckle rumbles. “Feels like you want to come pretty bad.”