But it didn’t look hard and I had a shitload of alcohol in me. And it was really just about following the beat, right? Emilia was thrusting herself at that asshole Richard (who I was now thinking of as “Dick” because he’d just had his hands all over my girlfriend). The brief question of whether or not she was even my territory crossed my mind. I waded stiffly through the sea of dancers toward her. Whether or not she was truly mine wouldn’t prevent me from staking a claim. I could see Jordan watching me with concerned eyes, but I didn’t care. If I got out of hand, he’d come over and bounce me, surely. But by then I’d probably be passed out. I’d been drunk a few times in my life, but it was far from a regular occurrence for me.

Along with her fluffy white tutu, Emilia wore a purple tank top that clung to her breasts and waist. No matter what she wore, she was gorgeous. The dancing would be a great excuse for me to get my hands on her again.

So I came up behind her and did some awkward gyrations, hoping I blended in enough with the crowd. Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl” started and half the room cheered and clapped. And Emilia was playing along twisting her hips and swaying to the music. Her back was to me so I moved in close and put my hands on her waist, trying my best to follow her movements.

She didn’t even miss a beat, apparently unfazed that some stranger (at least I could have been) had come up behind her and was now pressing himself to her backside. It felt dirty. But it felt good, too, fuck it all.

At that moment, I was only wondering how much she’d let me touch her. Few in the crowd really knew about Emilia and me. In fact, so few people knew about what we’d been to each other, that it was almost as if that was what had cursed us. What had erased “us” from all memory, even our own. We didn’t have anyone rooting for us to be together.

My hands were on her round, tight ass and she was only now starting to show an interest in who I was, casting a glance over her shoulder. When she locked gazes with me, she froze for mere seconds before resuming. A few moments later she did an about-face and turned her back on Richard. Score one for Adam and zero for Dick. I shot a smug smile at him over her shoulder, but he didn’t react. I still had the buzzing desire to fuck him up later for having touched her the way he had.

Emilia closed ranks with me and looped her hands around my neck. Her hips brushed up against my crotch and I was instantly erect. Every brush after that was sheer, delicious torture. I pressed my hand to her back, pulling her closer to me. She seemed to have no problem with the display, though I did feel the curious glances of other employees being cast our way. I didn’t give a shit. And if she didn’t, then this was happening, because it felt too good.

We danced like that for a few more songs before she turned to nudge her way toward the bar again. I followed her. I’d only seen her take one shot, but she seemed way more affected by it than she should have been.

“Haven’t you had enough?” I leaned down and spoke into her ear so she could hear me over all the noise.

She was moving in place to the music. “I’m just getting started,” she said. And then she stumbled on her high heels. She stood much closer to my height than normal. I looked down. She typically never wore heels that high, but these shoes were huge and kind of trashy and made her fantastic legs look even better.

I wanted to lick those legs, from her thin ankles to her muscular calves to the silky tops of her thighs. Look away, Drake, look away. I had to will myself not to think about that as my erection swelled to epic and uncomfortable proportions under the kilt.

But willing myself not to think about how much I wanted every inch of her was like asking a nomad in the Sahara not to take a drink when he had an entire oasis in front of him. I caught her when she stumbled. “You’re going to kill yourself in these fucking things. You’ve had enough.”

“I’m just a little dizzy. It’ll pass.”

“Emilia—”

She turned and jerked her head defiantly away from me. “Bartender! A round of shots here,” she shouted, pointing to both of us.

She seemed to be amused, apparently unaware that I’d already done my fair share of shots, but that pleasant, buzzed feeling was starting to fade and I wasn’t ready to give it up yet and go back to the void of reality. So we grabbed seats next to each other and did two more shots each.

After the second round, she put the back of her hand to her mouth and said. “Shit, I’m going to puke.”

“No more drinks for you,” I said.

She darted a look at me. “You’re not the boss of me.”