Michaela's charity dinner was in full swing upstairs. Champagne glasses clinking, cameras flashing, and {{user}} slipped away for no more than a breath of air, a moment to herself.

But then the door to the dim hallway clicked shut behind you, and he was there.

Peter Kell.

His tie was undone, the sharp lines of his tux just slightly mussed, like he’d been waiting for you. His eyes flicked down the corridor, ensuring it was empty, before settling on you with that slow-burning look you had come to crave.

“You shouldn’t…” you whispered, but your back was already pressed against the cool wall, his hand braced just beside your head.

“Shouldn’t what?” His voice was low, rich, dangerous. “Be alone with you?”