“You know the worst part of it?”

“What’s the worst part of it?” He leans closer, his whole face so open I feel myself wanting to tell him everything. So I do.

“The worst part is, as much as everything with Trent sucked, losing Lexie was like losing a piece of my soul. She, Katie, and I had been the three musketeers since junior high—inseparable.”

“Have you talked to her? Maybe if she knew—”

“I can’t,” I interrupt. “I said some pretty terrible things . . . called her names that I’m not even going to repeat here.” I blow out a breath and give my head an embarrassed shake. “It was bad. There’s no way she wants to hear from me.”

He brings a hand up and tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah . . . well.” I pull my eyes away from his mouth. “Anyway, they’re engaged now, so I hear.”

“That’s just . . . a little scary,” he says, his face scrunching, making me smile despite myself. He shakes his head, returning my smile. “Love blows.”

I drop my head onto the back of the sofa. “You got that right.”

“You know I’m serious, right? That guy’s a fucking moron to give you up like that.”

I lift my head and look at him. “I was thinking the same thing about your fiancée.”

His blue eyes darken in the dim light, his gaze smoldering with barely contained desire. “You were amazing out there tonight,” he says, his voice low and rough around the edges. “The way you move is just so . . .” He trails off with a slow shake of his head.

Desire twists tight in my core at the knowledge that this man, who is by far the hottest man I’ve ever known, wants me. Looking at the need on his face and coiled in his body, I know for sure he wouldn’t go eight months without taking me to bed. That look makes me feel sexy, and beautiful. It makes me pulse with need and ache in my most private places. It tells me that he wouldn’t leave me waiting and wanting for even eight minutes.

I look at him a moment longer, then stand and move to the stereo, cranking up the music; a slow, haunting piece that I feel in my soul. I let it flow into me, through me, and when it’s filled me, I turn to face him and start to dance. I lift my arms over my head and move to the pulsing rhythm. I circle my hips in a slow belly dance, and his eyes are glued to me, his lips parted slightly, and animal need dances in his hooded eyes. He rubs a hand down his face and sucks his upper lip between his teeth when I drop low, and his eyes follow the path of my hands as I roll back up, my fingertips skimming my calves and inner thighs, finally settling over the outside of my shorts, with my thumbs hooked under the waistband.

The unabashed need in his expression starts an intense throbbing in my groin that I can’t ignore. So I don’t. As I move to the rhythm, I let one hand continue up my body, over my bare midriff and my breast, finally twisting into my hair. My hips work the beat as I straighten my other arm, tugging the waistband of my tiny satin shorts dangerously low and bringing my fingertips to rest over the sweet spot at the apex of my thighs. I’m all adrenaline, every sensation heightened, and want pulsing through my veins like fire as I roll my hips in a slow circle.

Harrison tips his head back, blowing out a long breath between pursed lips, then stands and adjusts his jeans around the bulge inside them.

I crook my finger, beckoning him to me. “Dance with me.” It comes out a throaty demand—all sex and desire.

His eyes flare as he stalks closer, stopping a foot away. “I thought there was a three feet rule,” he says, his voice rough.

“I’m modifying it to one foot.” He reaches for my waist, but I back away and shake my head. “Still no touching. Sorry.”

I lift my arms overhead, weaving my fingers loosely into my hair, and start to move again, letting the music have me but never breaking eye contact with him. He watches me for a full minute, then starts to move with the rhythm. He’s good—loose and comfortable in his body. He rolls his hips and I moan a little, knowing just by that movement that he would be amazing in bed.

God, I want him in my bed.

I’m not usually like this. I mean, I held out for five years for one guy. Since I gave up my V card my sophomore year at a drunken frat party, there’s only been two others, including my one night with Jonathan. I can’t remember ever lusting this hard for anyone.

I turn my back to him and swing my hips, my ass “accidentally” brushing against the bulge in his jeans.

“Jesus, Sam,” he groans, his voice thick and a little strangled. The raw need in it is such a total turn-on. “Are you sure I can’t touch you?”

He’s just inches from me, and the feel of his breath in my hair sends goose bumps skittering over my scalp. The urge to spin and press my body against his is unbearable. I turn my head so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. And, God, he smells good—earthy with a musky undertone of sex.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He leans in, his lips nearly touching my ear. The heat of his mouth, so close to me, ripples every muscle south of my waist. “Yes, I can touch you?” he purrs. “Or yes, you’re sure I can’t.”

“I’m sure you can’t.” My voice comes out rough, and he groans at the sex in it.

His lips brush my ear as he leans closer. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stop myself.”

I can’t breathe. The air is suddenly too thick. Too charged.

“Sam?” he growls, shifting so he’s against me. “Please say I can.”

I lean my back into his front, and I can’t stop the satisfied moan. My moan turns into a low “Ahh,” more of a gasp than a word, when his strong hands close over my hips and pull me tighter against the evidence of exactly what his body wants from mine. I tip my head back into his shoulder, and his nose skims down the side of my neck. We roll our hips together to the music, and the heat of his body and his breath on my neck sets my blood on fire. And the epicenter of everything I’m feeling is at the sweet spot between my legs, where I ache so hard for him.

He knows what I want without me having to say it. He grinds himself against me from behind as his hand glides around my bare midriff, setting off fireworks under my skin. Every nerve ending buzzes, alive with the electricity between us. And when his hand glides lower, his fingertips slipping under my waistband, I moan deep in my chest, sure I’m about to explode.

His other hand brushes up the front of my top and his fingertips play over the tuxedo collar for a second before plunging beneath the fabric and cupping my breast in his sure, firm palm. I gasp and try to pull away. This is so against the rules. But when he holds me tight against him, every inch of his hot, hard body pressed against my back, I melt into him and moan.

I can’t resist him. Anything he wants is his.

I rock my hips, encouraging his fingertips lower, and feel the blazing trail they leave behind on my skin as they slip under the waistband of my thong. But just as I’m about to totally lose myself in him, a loud noise in the hall wrenches me back to reality.

Shit. I can’t do this.

My body wants so badly to override my mind that it continues to grind without my consent, working his fingers lower under my shorts.

This is the moment of truth. I have to decide right here, right now, what kind of person I am. If I don’t get out of this room in the next ten seconds, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop. Nora will find me right here on the floor, Harrison inside me to the root, when she sticks her head in the door to tell me time is up.

Is that who I am, or am I more than that? Harrison might make me feel like pure sex, but despite how much I want him, can I do this and maintain any shred of self-respect? Not to mention my job?

My will wins the battle over my desire and I rip myself out of his grasp and bolt for the door without looking back. It’s not until I’m in the hall and the door slams behind me that I can even think.