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The bartender leaned in, slow and steady. “Do you want to be kissed like you’re not famous?” he asked. I swallowed, the sound loud in my own ears. The air crackled. This wasn't about impressing anyone. This was about… an escape. A moment of being just a woman, not a headline. “Yes.” The word was a breath, a surrender. So he did. His mouth didn’t claim mine gently; it crashed. A sudden, consuming heat that tasted of the whiskey on his breath and a spark of something raw, almost desperate, that mirrored my own unspoken need. It wasn’t a celebrity peck or a polite press-tour gesture. It was real. Urgent. His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, holding me there as the kiss deepened, devoured. For a few heart-stopping seconds, the rooftop, the city, my name—it all erased. There was only the bruising pressure of his lips, the slide of his tongue, the sheer, unexpected force of being wanted for nothing more than the body I was in. The transition to the hotel room was a blur of unspoken agreement, a shared momentum born of that kiss. One moment we were on a rooftoppulsing with other people's New Year, the next the door of a sleek, cold hotel room was clicking shut behind us, the silence vast and sudden. The cool air of the room was a stark contrast to the heat still radiating from his skin as he turned me to face him. Buttons fumbled, zippers hissed. My dress, too tight and constricting just moments ago, pooled at my feet, a shimmer of discarded expectation. His shirt followed, his skin warmer than I imagined, taut over muscle. His kiss found my shoulder, hot and damp, a brand against the chill of the room. His hands, rougher than I expected, slid down my back, over my hips, then to my thighs, strong and sure, pulling me closer until I could feel the thrum of his pulse against mine. The taste of him was still whiskey and that undeniable human heat, potent and overwhelming. It wasn’t love. God, it wasn’t even close. This was friction and need, a temporary solace found in the anonymous dark. His body moved against mine with a rhythm that was both demanding and a relief, a primal answer to the ache I’d been carrying. I arched into him, hands gripping his shoulders, nails perhaps digging in a little, lost in the pure sensation, the temporary oblivion. It was a collision, a beautiful, messy erasure of the night, the year, the carefully constructed woman I was supposed to be. He moved over me, inside me, a solid, undeniable presence that filled the emptiness, if only for a while. Find Out What Happens Next. You can read FREE in Kindle Unlimited: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FBDBTY2V