His hand was large, wrapping around my waist with a possessive strength that made my breath hitch.    

"You look lost," he rasped. His voice was a low growl, vibrating against my ear.

"I am," I whispered, leaning into him. The alcohol made me brave, or perhaps it just stripped away the layers of repression I had spent years building.

He didn't ask for my name. He didn't offer his. He simply tightened his grip and led me out of the noise, through the back exit, and into the cool night air.

The walk to the hotel across the street was a dreamlike sequence of stumbles and his steadying hand. By the time the door to the suite clicked shut, the hunger between us had reached a breaking point.

He pinned me against the door immediately. His mouth crashed onto mine, tasting of whiskey and cold command.