The bar occupied the penthouse floor of New York downtown tower, all floor-to-ceiling glass and brushed steel, still warm from use.
Marguax stood at the railing with her third tequila, staring at the pinprick lights that refused to arrange themselves into meaning.
Twenty-three years old and her grandparents' handwriting had arrived by courier that morning, formal and unhurried, reminding her that the arrangement stood.
Holland August. She'd searched him afterward, forty-one, galleries of photographs showing a jawline that looked purchased and eyes that revealed nothing.
The articles called him disciplined. Ruthless. The kind of man who collected companies the way other men collected timepieces.
She'd chosen the skirt three hours earlier in a boutique she couldn't afford, pastel pink and riding high enough that the mirrors showed the curve where her thighs began. No underwear.
The decision had arrived fully formed, vicious and precise, somewhere between the third and fourth page of search results about her intended husband.
Let Holland Freaking August have damaged goods. Let the paperwork mean less than nothing. It was her friend's idea.
Ellen appeared at her elbow, already swaying, vodka tonic leaving a wet constellation across her silk camisole. "You look like you're planning a murder, darling."
"Something like that. I'm giving up my cherry tonight," Marguax finished her drink. The glass left a ring on the steel railing, perfect and temporary.
Ellen smirked, "That guy by the column keeps staring."
"Oh, I know," Marguax replied. She'd noticed him ten minutes ago. Dark wool suit, no tie, the collar open one button past professional.
The watch caught light when he lifted his hand, platinum, complicated face, the kind of mechanism that required servicing by appointment only.
But it was the forearms that held her attention, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins mapping across muscle that suggested something beyond desk work.
He moved before she could look away. No hesitation in the stride, cutting across the dance floor where couples moved in slow rotation beneath fixtures that dripped warm light like honey.
"Tequila," he said. Not a question. His voice carried the gravel of late nights, the shape of someone accustomed to being heard without raising volume.
"You look like someone who drinks when she's deciding something."
Marguax turned from the window. His eyes were green, she realized, the shade of harbor water in certain months, and they moved across her face with an assessment that felt almost clinical before settling into something else. "Anna," she said.
The false name arrived easily, rehearsed without knowing she'd rehearsed it.
"Carter." He smiled without showing teeth, a compression of muscle that suggested practice rather than warmth.
"The name my mother gave me, unfortunately. Sounds like a car dealership."
"Or a president."
"Worse."
Ellen, Marguax friend had vanished toward the restrooms, or the bar, or some conversation that wouldn't survive until morning.
Marguax felt the space open around her, the specific loneliness of crowded rooms, and pressed her empty glass against the railing until the cold bit her palm.
"Your friend left you undefended."
"She was never much defense."
"Neither am I." He signaled the bartender without looking, two fingers raised, and the drinks arrived with speed that suggested either generous tipping or recognizable face.
The tequila was older than the well stuff, amber where the house pour ran clear. "To poor decisions," he said, and touched his glass to hers before drinking.
The burn spread familiar and welcome, loosening something in her shoulders that had been tight since childhood.
"You assume I'm making one."
"I assume we both are." His thumb traced the rim of his glass, callused at the pad, unexpected against the evidence of his tailoring.
"Otherwise why would we be telling each other lies before we've finished our drinks?"
The music shifted, something with bass that vibrated through the floor into her sternum. Marguax felt the tequila moving in her blood, the skirt riding higher as she shifted her weight, and watched his gaze track the movement without rush or apology.
She had expected predatory. This was something else, attention like a hand placed flat against glass, feeling for temperature.
"I don't know how to dance to this," she said.
"Neither do I." He set down his glass. "Which means we can be terrible together."
His hand found her waist with the confidence of ownership, fingers spreading across the thin cotton of her blouse where damp had begun to gather along her spine.
The fabric was white, nearly translucent under the pendant lights, and she watched his eyes move across the lace pattern of her bra before returning to her face.
No concealment in the looking. He wanted her to know he was looking.
She moved first, hips finding the rhythm that her mind couldn't trace, and felt him follow half a beat behind, large body adjusting to her smaller frame with an ease that suggested either natural talent or extensive practice.
His thigh pressed between hers as they turned, muscle hard through wool and against her bare skin where the skirt provided no barrier.
The absence of underwear suddenly felt less like armor and more like exposure, air moving where she was already warming.
"You're shaking," he observed. His thumb had found the gap between blouse and skirt, skin to skin, circling with pressure that might have been accidental.
"Cold."
"It's seventy-four degrees." He pulled her closer, chest to chest, and she felt his heartbeat through the thin wool, faster than his composure suggested.
"Tell me another one."
She tilted her chin to meet his eyes. "I'm not afraid of you."
"Better." His hand dropped lower, fingertips brushing the upper curve of her ass where the skirt ended, testing the boundary.
"I'm afraid of you, Anna. That's the truth. You look like someone who takes things seriously."
"What things?"
"All of them." He turned her, spinning her out and drawing her back with a motion that pressed her against him full-length, his arousal evident and unashamed against her stomach.
The height difference required her to look up, neck arching, and his free hand found the line of her jaw, thumb tracing the edge of her lower lip.
"Men like me don't meet women like you. We meet women who know the rules."
"What rules?"
His mouth was close enough that she felt the warmth of his words. "Names before touching. Stories before bodies. Two drinks before you let on that you want to be fucked."
The vulgarity landed precisely, without the buffer of alcohol to soften it.
Marguax felt her breath catch, visible in the rise of her chest against his, and watched his gaze drop to confirm the effect.
"I don't follow rules," she said.
"I noticed."
The kiss began as the tequila had, slow burn building to something that consumed judgment.
His mouth opened hers with pressure that tasted of agave and something darker, tongue finding hers with a precision that suggested mapping, memorization.
She rose onto her toes to meet him, fingers curling in the wool at his shoulders, and felt his hand settle fully on her ass, lifting slightly, arranging her against his thigh until she gasped into his mouth.
They were visible. The thought arrived distant, overheard. The dance floor surrounded them with bodies in similar negotiations, but the space they occupied felt lit, marked.
His fingers had found the hem of her skirt, inching higher, and she made no move to stop them.
"You're not wearing anything," he murmured against her jaw, the discovery arriving without surprise.
His hand stilled, palm flat against the curve of her ass, thumb straying toward the center. "You came here like this. On purpose."
"Does it matter why?"
"Not to my cock." He bit her earlobe, sharp enough to arch her spine. "But to the rest of me. Yes. It matters very much."
The track changed again, slower, and he held her through the transition, swaying now rather than dancing, his hand still beneath her skirt in a claim that anyone watching would understand.
Marguax felt the liquor and the contact and the reckless velocity of her own decisions converging into something that resembled, finally, freedom.
"Another drink," she said, though she hadn't finished the last.
"Tequila makes you honest?"
"Tequila makes me brave."
He laughed, genuine and unexpected, the sound rough in his throat. "Then we'll need the bottle."