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"I love—" He catches himself, catches me, drives harder instead. "I love fucking you like this. Dressed like this. You have no idea what you look like right now."

I do, actually.

I can see us in the mirror across the room, the green dress crushed in his hands, my flushed chest, this enormous man in a suit losing every ounce of his control because of me.

The woman Brett called a dud in bed is being fucked against a wardrobe by a captain who can't stop praising her.

"Miles—I'm close—"

"I know." His voice is wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me, sweetheart."

When it hits, he presses his mouth over mine and swallows the cry whole, kissing me through every wave while my thighs shake around his waist and my heel scrapes the wardrobe.

He follows two thrusts later with a low, broken groan into my hair, buried deep, his whole body shuddering against mine.

Somewhere below us, a string quartet is warming up.

We start laughing at the same time.

"So now we're about to attend a respectable sponsor dinner," I manage, still wrapped around him, "with your cum literally dripping down my leg."

"Merry Christmas to me."

"You're disgusting."

“You’re the one who said ruin me.” He lowers me carefully, holding my hips until my legs remember their job. “I’d say that’s mission accomplished.”

He reaches for one of the soft cloths beside the vanity and cleans between my thighs before anything can reach the borrowed fabric, his touch suddenly careful despite his chest still heaving.

“Very responsible,” I murmur.

“I take formalwear seriously.”

He crouches and smooths the green skirt down my thighs, straightens the strap that slipped crooked and uses the pad of his thumb to repair the smudged edge of my lipstick with a gentleness that has no business belonging to hands that size.

“There,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Perfect again.”

I try to hide my smile and fail miserably. “You have my lipstick on your collar.”

Miles checks his reflection, wipes the lipstick from his mouth and leaves the mark on his collar exactly where it is.

“Miles.”

“What?” His grin catches mine in the mirror. “I like the evidence.”

We arrive flushed, seven minutes late and visibly too pleased with ourselves.

The ballroom has gone full festive fantasy.

Chandeliers blaze above tables dressed in cream and gold, garlands thick with berries wind down every pillar, and hundreds of candles flicker inside glass lanterns while floor-to-ceiling windows frame the snowy rink glowing below.

All around the room, waiters float between well-dressed guests with champagne, and an entire table is devoted to a croquembouche shaped like a Christmas tree that I intend to personally dismantle before the night ends.

Nate takes one look at us as we move to stand beside him. He turns to Eden, and announces not so subtly, "I win the bet."

"What bet?" I ask.

"Unspecified," Eden says. "He's been saying that all week. Nobody knows what he's won."