Page 84 of After All This Time

She looks fucking phenomenal.

It's more than beautiful.

It's more than pretty.

She's the kind of stunning that makes a grown-ass man forget how to function.

Absolute. Fucking. Fire.

She lifts her arm to adjust her earring, the movement so effortless yet so captivating. When she finally turns to face me, my eyes greedily take her in, finding the dip at her waist that shows me exactly how perfectly my hands would fit there if only I had the right to touch her.

It's not just the dress. It's her—the way she moves, like she owns the room—owns me—and doesn't even realize it. She's breathtaking in a way that's almost unfair, and suddenly, I'm questioning every decision I've ever made that led me to this exact moment of torture.

Stepping in here was a mistake because every single primal, filthy desire I've ever had for her just came roaring back to life in the last five seconds.

Five. Damn. Seconds.

That's all it took for my self-control to take one look at the situation and fuck right off without so much as a warning.

"You look nice," she says with a soft smile, unaware that I'm standing here completely wrecked.

I want to drop to my knees, grip her thighs, hike up that dress, and bury my face between her legs until she's shaking… until she's moaning my name. My hands are already itching, fists clenched at my sides, desperate to slide over the fabric hugging her curves, to feel the heat of her skin beneath my fingers.

How the hell did I never look at her like this before?

She's always been beautiful—even when she tried to downplay it. But now I see her beauty in a way I never have before. It's not just her body, though fuck, her body is sinful. It's her. She's fire,light, and shadows, all wrapped up in a package so tempting that it feels like she was made to destroy me. And fuck me, I want her.

"Well, you look like I'm going to end the night fighting."

She takes a small step closer, her eyes finding mine in a way that makes looking away impossible."My mom had like ten dresses sent over in every color imaginable, but this one just felt…"

"Perfect."

Amelia's dark eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, everything around us feels like it's standing still. My heart slams against my ribs, pounding so hard I'm sure she can hear it.

"The dress is perfect on you."

My stomach twists, gnawing at me in a way that feels dangerously close to anxiety—or maybe it's butterflies. Jesus, I sound like a fucking teenager. Whatever it is, it's Amelia's doing, and I'm a slave to it.

"Are you ready to get stupidly drunk?" I ask.

"God, yes. Give me all the champagne."

I step forward, pulling the door open for her, and as she walks past, my eyes close for the briefest second, completely involuntary, as I breathe her in like a goddamn addict chasing his next fix.

"I can already hear how many people are here," I mutter, following behind her as we make our way down the stairs, my gaze unashamedly fixed on her ass with every single step she takes.

"You know this place is going to be full of entitled fuckwits tonight, don't you?" she says as she glances back at me.

"All the usual ones, I expect." My tone is dry, dripping with sarcasm because it's always the same crowd—overdressed, overprivileged, and unbearably self-important. The kind of people who think discussing yachts over champagne flutes counts as deep conversation.

The celebration below us is already in full swing, a cacophony of wealth and pretense. It's the kind of party designed to show off wealth and remind everyone just how far removed this world is from anything resembling normal human behavior.

As we step into the room, all eyes snap to Amelia first. She's stunning, the kind of beauty that commands attention without trying. But then their gazes slide to me, and the air shifts. The reactions are instant and predictable. Some look at me with an almost palpable hunger, their eyes dragging over me like they want to sink their teeth in and devour whatever it is they think they see. Others glare like my very presence disrupts the carefully curated perfection of this world.

There's no in-between. No safe middle ground where a guy like me can hide. I don't fit here, and they know it. Hell, I want them to know it. I don't look like the clean-cut son of a millionaire. I might be rough around the edges, but hell, I put on a damn suit. What more do they want from me?

"There you both are!" Kayla's voice pierces through the room, waving us over as if we're lost puppies instead of two people actively trying to avoid this whole champagne-soaked shitshow.

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