I curl my toes into the leather seat, pretending it's just about getting comfortable.

But he's watching.

The way his hand tightens slightly on the gearshift--like it's my ankle. The way his breath catches when I stretch one bare foot toward his lap. It's dark inside the car, but the dashboard casts just enough glow to catch the sheen on my toes.

He doesn't say anything.

So I press my sole against his thigh.

Slow. Innocent. Or almost.

"Comfortable?" he asks, but his voice is rougher than usual. His eyes flick down, then right back up to the windshield. Like he's trying not to look. Like that makes it worse.

I nod. Let my toes spread, drag faintly across denim.

God, he's hard already.

The thrill races through me like I'm the one being touched. I press in a little more, then lift my other foot, bending my knee so he can see both arches, side by side.

I don't speak. I don't have to.

He finally exhales. "You're playing with fire."

I grin. Tilt my foot, let my toes trace along the inside of his thigh. Then back out, slow and smooth.

"I like the heat."

His hand drops from the wheel. Lands on my ankle. His thumb rubs lazy circles at the base of my heel.

I twitch.

"Sensitive?" he murmurs.

I don't answer. Just shift closer, stretching both legs across the console, heels braced on his seat, toes framing the hard line of his zipper. My heartbeat is ridiculous.

He leans in. Mouth close. Breath hot.

Then--

A kiss. Not on my lips.

On the arch. Just below the ball of my foot.

Soft. Open. Reverent.

My whole body flinches.

Why does that feel so--

His tongue follows, slow, between the curves of my foot, where skin is soft and tender. I can't breathe.

Another kiss. This time, lower.

Then teeth. Gentle. Testing.

I moan. Quiet, but real.

His eyes flick up to meet mine.

"Tell me to stop," he says.

I don't.

Instead, I lift one foot to his mouth and whisper:

"Keep going."

The windows fog.

The air thickens.

His tongue slides between both arches--slow, devastating--and I swear I could come from this alone.

But I don't.

Not yet.

I'm too focused on the way he worships me.

Like I'm holy.

Like my feet are a prayer.

And he's the answer.

----

The music is distant--thumping through walls like a second pulse--but in here, it's just us.

A bathroom that smells like vanilla soap and someone's expensive cologne. Fog curls along the edges of the mirror from the shower someone took earlier. I'm sitting on the counter, one heel dangling, the other foot braced against the door he just locked.

He hasn't said a word.

But his hands are braced on either side of the sink, caging me in. His jaw tight. His eyes darker than the party lighting outside ever let on.

I lick my lips. Not to tease. To taste my own anticipation.

"You've been watching me all night," I whisper.

His nostrils flare. "You've been asking for it all night."

I smile. Pull my leg down slowly, letting my toes trace the inseam of his pants. He shudders--just once.

"Still asking."

His hands move. Fast. One catches my ankle, the other slides up my calf like he owns it.

And then his mouth is on my foot.

Not rushed. Not polite. Just... needy.

He presses kisses into my sole like he's been waiting all evening. His tongue swirls over the arch, then darts between my toes, and I gasp. My back hits the mirror behind me, cool glass against flushed skin.

He looks up--eyes burning.

"You really want this here?"

I nod, but that's not enough. I guide his mouth back with my heel.

"I want everything."

And I mean it.

Because here, with the music muffled and my pulse louder than the bass, I don't have to pretend. Don't have to hold back. My thighs part, slow, deliberate, and he steps between them like he belongs there.

His hands on my hips. His mouth still trailing wet heat up my ankle.

I moan--soft but rising. He answers with his own low growl.

The edge of the counter digs into me. The mirror fogs again. His lips reach my inner knee, and I'm already trembling.

God, how is this real?

His fingers push aside the hem of my dress.

My breath stutters.

This isn't a party anymore.

It's a confession.

And he's the only one allowed to hear it.