IRRESISTIBLE PLEASURES

ISABELLA

“I swear to God, Chloe, if you make me drink another glass of this thing, I will personally ruin your birthday cake.”

Chloe burst out laughing, nearly spilling champagne down the front of her glittering silver dress.

“You have been threatening me for the past twenty minutes, Isabella, and yet here you are, holding another glass.”

I looked down at the champagne in my hand, then back at my best friend, who was wearing the most annoyingly satisfied smile I had ever seen.

“Because you keep putting it in my hand!”

“Then stop drinking it, genius.”

I narrowed my eyes at her before taking another sip.

She screamed with laughter.

Honestly, I hated her sometimes. Not really, of course, but if friendship came with a refund policy, Chloe would have been the first person I returned to the manufacturer.

The music thundered through the luxurious ballroom, drowning out conversations as elegantly dressed guests danced beneath enormous crystal chandeliers. Everywhere I looked, there were expensive dresses, tailored suits, sparkling jewelry, and enough champagne to fund my entire life for the next six months.

Chloe had gone completely overboard with her birthday celebration, renting out an entire section of the hotel ballroom and inviting practically everyone she had ever met.

Naturally, she had invited me first.

And naturally, I had complained about the expense, the dress code, and the fact that she expected me to leave my comfortable apartment on a Friday evening when my bed was perfectly capable of providing all the entertainment I needed.

Unfortunately, Chloe knew exactly how to manipulate me.

One sad expression, three dramatic declarations about how I was her favorite person in the world, and suddenly, I was wearing a fitted black dress and heels that had already begun threatening my life.

Still, I couldn’t deny that the party was beautiful.

I also couldn’t deny that I was beginning to feel pleasantly lightheaded.

“Come on,” Chloe said, grabbing my wrist. “Let’s dance.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Isabella.”

“Chloe.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“Good. At least one of us is having fun.”

She gasped, pressed a hand to her chest, and stared at me as though I had just committed a crime against humanity.

I laughed so hard that I nearly choked on my champagne.

That was the problem with Chloe. She could make me laugh even when I was determined to remain miserable.

And, unfortunately, I had been miserable all week.

My supervisor had spent three consecutive days criticizing work she had approved herself, my rent was approaching with the enthusiasm of an executioner, and my bank account had recently become so depressing that I had stopped opening my banking app altogether.

I needed a break.

A proper one.

Preferably involving good music, expensive champagne, and a handsome stranger who would look at me like I was the most beautiful woman in the room.

Was that too much to ask?

Apparently, the universe thought so because Chloe suddenly shoved another glass into my hand and announced, “Drink up, babe. Tonight, we forget all our problems.”

I lifted my glass.

“To forgetting our problems.”

“To making terrible decisions!”

We clinked glasses.

I should have questioned why she sounded so enthusiastic about that last part.

I really should have.

An hour later, I had learned three important things.

First, champagne was deceptively dangerous.

Second, my heels were instruments of torture designed by people who hated women.

And third, dancing was significantly more difficult when the entire room seemed determined to sway in the opposite direction from me.

“I need air,” I announced, stepping away from the dance floor.

Chloe was busy arguing with a man who had apparently mistaken her birthday for an opportunity to propose a business partnership, so she merely waved me off.

“Don’t disappear!”

“I’ll be back before you miss me!”

“That means nothing! You disappear when you go to the bathroom!”

I laughed and stumbled toward the quieter corridor leading away from the ballroom.

Or, at least, I thought it was a corridor.

The room tilted slightly when I turned the corner, and I grabbed at the nearest surface to steady myself.

Except the nearest surface wasn’t a wall.

It was a person.

A very tall, very solid, very expensive-smelling person.

My palms landed against a broad chest, and I collided with him so abruptly that my champagne nearly splashed across his shirt.

“Oh, shit!”

Strong hands caught my waist before I could fall.

For a moment, I simply stood there, clutching the front of his suit while my brain struggled to catch up with the rest of my body.

Then I looked up.

And promptly forgot every language I had ever learned.

Oh.

Oh, wow.

Oh, my actual God.

The man staring down at me was offensively handsome.

His black hair was neatly styled, although a few strands had fallen across his forehead, giving him an almost unfair combination of elegance and dishevelment. His jaw could probably cut glass, his nose was straight, and his eyes were the kind of dark, intense brown that made a woman wonder whether she had ever truly understood the meaning of eye contact.

He wore a perfectly tailored black suit over a crisp white shirt, and everything about him screamed money, power, and an alarming lack of patience.

His mouth was firm, his expression unreadable, and his entire face looked as though smiling was an activity he considered beneath his dignity.

Naturally, I wanted to see him smile.

Preferably at me.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” he asked.

His voice.

Good Lord.

Deep, smooth, and cold enough to make a freezer feel insecure.

I blinked at him, then I smiled.

“Wow.”

His eyebrows drew together.

“What?”

“You’re really, really pretty.”

Silence.

I swear the man actually stopped breathing, then his expression hardened.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t be shy. It’s okay. You can be pretty and handsome at the same time. I’m a very supportive person.”

His hands remained at my waist, although I noticed that his fingers had gone strangely still.

I tilted my head, studying him with great seriousness.

“Although, honestly, I think your face is a little wasted on you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And why is that?”

“Because you look like you haven’t laughed since the invention of electricity.”

For one glorious second, I thought he might smile.

Instead, he stared at me as though he was reconsidering every decision that had brought him into my path.

I giggled, then I realized that I was still holding his suit.

“Oh! Sorry.”

I started to release him, but my heel caught against the edge of the carpet, and I lurched forward again.

His arms tightened around me.

My chest pressed against his, and my fingers instinctively curled into the lapels of his jacket.

We froze, because the man was staring at me with an expression so strange that even my champagne-soaked brain noticed it.

His eyes had widened slightly, and the muscles in his jaw stood out beneath his skin.

For a moment, he looked almost frightened.

I frowned.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his gaze dropped to my hands.

I followed it.

Oh.

I was touching him.

Well, yes, obviously. I had been touching him for the past minute, but perhaps he was one of those men who didn’t like people touching their expensive clothes.

Fair enough.

I lifted my hands a little.

“Sorry. Is this suit made of something precious? Because if I damaged it, I should warn you that my financial situation is currently tragic.”

Nothing.

He continued staring at me, then, very slowly, his gaze returned to my face.

I smiled uncertainly.

“Handsome?”

He swallowed, and for reasons I couldn’t begin to understand, that tiny movement made him look even more attractive.

I was in serious trouble.

ADRIAN

Her hands were on me.

That was the first coherent thought I managed to form.

Her hands were on my chest, her fingers curled into my jacket, and her body was pressed against mine as though personal space was a concept she had never encountered.

I should have pushed her away.

I should have stepped back, called security, or done any of the dozen things I had perfected over the years to ensure that nobody came close enough to touch me without permission.

Instead, I stood there, completely still, waiting for the familiar sensation to begin.

It always began the same way.

A hand against my arm, a brush of fingers across my shoulder, an unexpected collision in a crowded room, then came the tightening in my chest, the sudden awareness of my skin, the overwhelming need to escape. Sometimes the memories followed immediately, dragging me backward into a past I had spent years trying to bury.

I had learned to avoid handshakes, crowded elevators, casual embraces, and even the well-intentioned gestures of people who believed physical affection was something everyone should enjoy.

My employees knew better than to touch me.

My friends had long ago abandoned the habit of clapping me on the back.

Even my family had learned that a certain distance was the only way to keep me comfortable.

Yet this woman had collided with me, grabbed me, and wrapped herself around me without the slightest warning, and I felt nothing.

Only the unmistakable warmth of her body, the delicate pressure of her fingers against my chest, and a scent that seemed to settle somewhere beneath my ribs.

Vanilla.

Something floral, andsomething uniquely hers that I couldn’t identify but suddenly wanted to breathe in again.

It was ridiculous.

I was standing in the middle of a hotel corridor, allowing a drunken stranger to hold me as though we had known each other for years.

Worse, I was noticing things about her.

Her glossy lips.

The faint crease between her eyebrows when she studied me.

The way her dark eyes sparkled even through the haze of alcohol.

She was beautiful.

I had seen beautiful women before. I had dated women who considered beauty a profession and treated every conversation like an audition for a place in my life.

None of that had ever mattered.

Beauty did not make touch easier.

Attraction did not make proximity comfortable, and yet this woman was standing close enough for me to feel her breath against my throat, and all I could think about was how warm she was, then she called me pretty.

I almost laughed.

Almost.

The sound caught somewhere in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome.

I hadn’t laughed at a stranger’s compliment in years, much less one delivered by a woman who appeared to be fighting a losing battle against her own shoes.

She looked up at me with a smile that was far too pleased with itself, and then she stumbled again.

I caught her automatically.

My hands settled around her waist before I could reconsider the movement, and she pressed closer, her fingers gripping my jacket.

Still nothing.

My heart was beating faster now, but not with the familiar panic.

Something else had taken its place, and an attraction so sudden and inconvenient that I immediately resented it.

“You’re staring,” she informed me.

I looked down at her.

“You’re drunk.”

She considered that.

“That’s a very rude thing to say to a woman who has just complimented your face.”

“You nearly fell on me.”

“And you caught me. So technically, we’re both winners.”

I stared at her.

She grinned.

I had absolutely no idea what to do with this woman, then she rose slightly onto her toes, bringing her face closer to mine.

My entire body went still.

Her eyes flickered between mine and my mouth, and I suddenly became acutely aware of how close we were standing.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered.

I should have told her to step back.

Instead, I heard myself ask, “What?”

She smiled.

“You’re the most handsome man I’ve seen all night.”

Something inside me shifted.

It was absurd that a few words from a tipsy stranger could make me forget the noise of the party behind us, but suddenly, the world seemed to narrow to her face.

Her fingers tightened around my lapels, then she kissed me.

ISABELLA

I kissed him.

Actually kissed him, and, judging by the way he went completely motionless, I had apparently managed to surprise the man who looked as though absolutely nothing in the world could surprise him.

For one brief second, I wondered whether I had made a terrible mistake, then I felt his hands tighten at my waist.

My heart did a ridiculous little somersault.

Oh.

Oh, this was interesting.

His lips were warm and firm against mine, and he smelled so good that I briefly considered asking what cologne he wore before remembering that I was currently kissing him without permission from either my common sense or my best friend.

I pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were open.

He was staring at me as though I had just performed open-heart surgery with a spoon.

I blinked.

“Was that terrible, handsome?”

He looked at my lips, then at my eyes.

For a moment, I thought he might tell me to get lost.

Instead, his deep voice emerged, quieter than before.

“No.”

And just like that, my terrible week became significantly more interesting.