I shrugged, screwed off the cap, and tossed the liquor back in my throat.

“Hey!” he shouted and rushed to my side just as the liquid burned its way down my esophagus. I coughed roughly. I’m on fucking fire, I thought. He snatched the bottle away from me but eighty percent was already invading my stomach.

My nose crinkled in disgust. “Why do you do that?” I asked. I’ve seen him drink straight liquor. I rub my hand on my tongue, trying to rid the taste. Ugh.

He just laughed and let me complain for a few minutes, and then the alcohol slowly began to warp my mind, turning my lustful thoughts on overdrive. I craved touch. For hands to slide up and down my legs and thighs.

I plopped on the edge of the bed, my eyes drifting over Lo, falling to his ass as he stared out the window, mesmerized by the twinkling Christmas lights and the flutter of snow.

I wanted sex.

I wanted to feel as good as he was feeling. Alcohol made him relaxed, at ease, and I yearned for that type of temperate peace.

“Lo,” I breathed. “Are we still pretending?”

His eyes met mine. “I’ll be sleeping in your room tonight because we’re supposed to be dating. So…yes.”

“Can I do something?” My eyelids felt heavy from the liquor, and hopefully my voice was not so slurred.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Sure,” he said. “I can wait in your father’s study. I don’t think there’s anyone there.”

He moved towards the door, about to give me privacy for self-love. But that’s not what I wanted. “Wait,” I called out, my heart beating rapidly. His feet halted in the middle of the floor, and he spun around, facing me with the tilt of his head.

“You can stay,” I told him. “Right there. Just…stay right there.”

I slid underneath the covers and tried to avoid his gaze as I fumbled with my dress. I pulled the fabric over my head and threw it to the floor—along with my panties. I had enough sense to keep my strapless bra on at least. Not that it was covering much.

Now situated, I looked back at him. An amused expression danced across his face. “How drunk are you?” he asked.

Truthfully, I hoped I wouldn’t remember doing this in the morning. That didn’t end up happening though. “Enough,” I said. Enough to touch myself in front of you.

He licked his bottom lip and held up the bottle to his mouth. He waited to see if I’d go through with it. My fingers dipped between my legs, finding the soft, wet spot that ached for touch. My breath deepened as soon as my fingers pulsed along my clit, and I basked in the way it lit up my core.

I stared longingly at his pants, imagining his cock that I never really saw during our college years. I never wanted his penis to spike my temptations, so I avoided eye contact with it most days. But that night, I didn’t care about any of that. Sex was on my mind, and it wanted something more.

His fingers traveled to the button on his pants, and my breath hitched as he pushed it slowly through the hole.

I looked at him questioningly. What was he doing?

“If you want to watch me while you get yourself off,” he said, “you might as well do it the right way, love.” He tugged down his pants to his ankles and slowly stepped out of them. My mouth hung open, and I stopped moving my own fingers in shock.

He was hard.

Not completely, but definitely more firm than before. His tight black boxer-briefs exposed every muscle and curve and of course the bulge that I fixated on.

“Keep going,” he urged.

My fingers reignited at his words, and I moved them faster, my hips writhing and pumping in animation. His cock slowly grew. I was beckoning it to me, like I had become a little snake charmer. I loved that control…that power.

I stole a glance and caught Lo drinking in my features, the way my lips parted and my eyes fluttered back. But when we locked gazes, I dropped my focus, his hand disappearing below the hem of his boxer-briefs.

A moan caught in my throat as I watched him rub himself beneath the fabric. I couldn’t see his cock, not really, but that felt even sexier. More sinful and wrong and just about right.

 His heavy breath became deep and rough, as ragged and wanting as mine. “Lily,” he groaned. My climax arrived in that idyllic rush, in a tidal wave that blew me over in staggered successions. My body shook and my toes curled, my high blistering me from the inside out. Lo grunted, his breath sharp, and he came right along with me.

The usual shame was absolved by the booze and the reminder that we hadn’t broken any rules. I convinced myself that he’s probably heard me come in the next room thousands of times. Seeing the act couldn’t have been much different. And I had never done something like this with any other guy before.

It felt special.

I turned to ask him if we could do it again. Once was never enough.

He saw the desperation before I uttered a word.

“If you do it in front of me again, I’ll have to fuck you,” he said.

“Have to or want to?” I asked in confusion.

He smiled easily, but never gave me a clear answer. “I may not get hard when you tell me you’re horny, but I’m still a guy. And you still have rules. Ones that I won’t take advantage of when you’re drunk.”

“So when I’m sober?”

His smile turned mischievous. “I’m going to take a shower.”

He gripped the neck of the Macallan. I must have looked disappointed still because he went to my closet instead of the bathroom. He pulled out a pink Victoria’s Secret shoebox from the bottom and set it gently on the bed beside me. He knew it was filled with all my toys. The gesture was kind.

He tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear and kissed me on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Lil,” he said and left for the bathroom.

He never came back. I spent the next four hours in a self-love coma until I passed out. In the morning, I found him asleep on the tiled bathroom floor hugging an empty bottle. We never spoke about it again. I buried the memory with my fantasies, and I’ve always believed he lost the memory in his booze.

“I can’t believe you’re fucking engaged,” Ryke tells me.

We stretch by the small koi pond at the edge of our property, trying our best to run without nearing the wrought iron gates. Paparazzi camp on the street, peering through the gate that does little in terms of privacy. Rose already called a landscaper to plant tall hedges, but they won’t be finished for a whole month.

“In a scandal management perspective, marriage is the clear solution,” Connor says. He stretches his quads on the ground.

“Yes because now people will think Lily’s an adulterer and not just cheating on her college boyfriend,” Ryke retorts.

Connor stares him down. “Society believes marriage shows commitment, a stronger bond.” He stands to his feet. “Not to mention gossip mongers eat up a good love story. And what’s better than love uniting a sex addict and an alcoholic?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in New York right now?” Ryke snaps back, surrendering the fight. Everyone has an opinion about the engagement, but the only one that matters to me is Lily’s. “I thought Rose was running around with her fucking head off her shoulders.”

All of our family’s companies have been hit financially from the scandal, but unlike Fizzle and Hale Co., Calloway Couture is a young business already on shaky ground. The blow toppled it over. The menswear line that she’s been slaving over for months—the one I briefly modeled for—is being reviewed for Fashion Week. Even Connor said that the likelihood of the line surviving is slim to none. So she’s going to be pulled from the show, two department stores just dropped her, and she had to let go her assistants, including Lily. Rose won’t tap into her trust fund to pay her employees, and she’s losing money too quickly to keep them.