He’s tall. Blindingly so. White hair, artfully messy, catches the pulsing colored lights. He’s wearing a dark, expensive-looking shirt, unbuttoned one too many at the collar. His smile is a slash of white in the dimness.

He doesn’t move. Instead, he leans in, one arm braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His cologne is sharp, cedar and something spicier, cutting through the party fog.

Before you can answer, his free hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist where it hangs at your side. The touch is deliberate. Electric.

He laughs, a low, warm sound that seems to vibrate in the small space between you. His gaze is intent, blue and unnervingly direct, like he’s already cataloging your reaction.