I run my fingers up his shirt, around his square shoulders, savoring the rock-hard feel of his muscles. I couldn’t stop the way I want to touch him even if I tied myself up!

The song ends, and he takes my hand and leads the way back to the table. Beads of perspiration run down between my breasts. Dozens of stares come at us; nearly every woman in the room is surveying me, head to toe, most with expressions that tell me they want to claw my skin off.

I almost wince.

At the booth, Callan is relating Saint anecdotes to the socialite whores.

“Oh yeah, but Saint crushed those rumors.”

“Crushed!” Tahoe proudly echoes, fist to palm.

Ignoring them, Malcolm pulls me into the booth with him and resumes his position with his arm on the backrest of my seat, his head lowered in my direction so I can feel his warm breath at the back of my ear. “Hey . . . look at me,” he coaxes as he slides his hand to my thigh and my thoughts scatter.

The touch sparks all my nerve receptors, all my yearning. I don’t know if it’s been building for minutes, hours, days, weeks, or my whole life, but I know I’m never aware of it unless he’s near. Ruled by impulse now, I turn around and lean a little against him. He shifts so that his arm is now loose around my shoulders, and shiver as his fingers wander under the fall of my hair. His friends are talking. Saint whispers in my ear, “You look very pretty.”

Suddenly my cheeks are burning and my stomach turns into a live thing.

The music stops and “Kiss You Slow” by Andy Grammer starts. He cups my face, his eyelids at half-mast. He kisses the corner of my lips.

The air feels like a lick of fire on my skin.

He gathers me tighter and flatter against his side, then drags all four of his silver-ringed fingers down the side of my face, his eyes following their path. “I’m with the hottest girl in the Tunnel tonight,” he murmurs as he rubs my lipstick off my mouth with the sexiest brush of his thumb I could imagine.

And there, in his beautiful eyes, is a wild desire mirroring the one inside me. Desire unlike anything I’ve ever known clogs my throat, drives me to gently nip his thumb. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. The song is talking about kissing slow . . .

My perspective zooms out for a little bit, and I become aware of his friends making out in their corner with their whores just like Saint is making out with me. Of my friends mingling out there, somewhere. Of people dancing, others glancing in our direction. And of my life, changing, right this moment, somehow, as he stares at my face, the colors in his eyes shifting like a kaleidoscope as he seems to battle with the same confusing emotions that I am.

He takes my hips and slowly guides me to his lap. I go all too willingly, loosening my body so he can sit me sideways while I clutch onto his neck for dear life.

“Do you want this?” he whispers as he reaches beneath my skirt and I feel the warmth of his hand caressing the inside of my thigh.

Heart violently fluttering in my chest, my fingertips slide up his neck as I try to press closer. His neck is hard and thick and I duck my head to smell him. Then I whisper recklessly in his ear, “I’m with the most handsome guy.”

“You fucking sly dog. You’re probably going to do some jousting later on with Rache, too!” Tahoe calls from his seat, lifting his wineglass at us while his floozy tries to readjust her dress.

Saint’s hand pulls out from my skirt, but he squeezes my thigh as he looks into my eyes regretfully. “Busy, T,” he growls. He levels Tahoe a look that could just about flay the skin off his bones.

I blow out a breath, remembering the images and the rumors already going around about me, only making my job so much more risky.

“Not here,” I tell him when I recover at least a little bit of my brain.

Making out in a club? Really, Rachel? With Saint?

Malcolm seizes my hips and helps me down off his lap.

“Hey, he really likes you,” Tahoe calls to me, wagging his eyebrows as Malcolm summons a waiter and asks for something that makes him rush away, only to come back and nod.

“Mr. Saint, follow me,” the waiter says.

Malcolm grabs his jacket from the bench and then takes me by the elbow, murmuring in my ear, “Come with me, Rachel.”

We’re led into a private room. There’s a table at the end with little electric candles. A wine bucket, two wineglasses, a vase with a single pink tulip, dimmed lights. The same song playing outside but far more intimate.

“Anything you need, Mr. Saint?” the waiter says, and when Malcolm pushes what looks like several bills into his hand, the waiter almost falls apart.