THE CRAZY PROPOSITION

The Sullivan Foundation Gala was held in the ballroom of the Fullerton Bay Hotel, all crystal and white orchids and Singapore money so old it didn't need to glitter.

Brett hadn't breathed properly since the car pulled up.

He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse while Nico zipped him into the dress, his hands shaking so hard he had to press his pink nails into his palms to stop them.

It was nothing like the dove-grey armor he'd worn for Eleanor.

This was war paint.

The gown was liquid midnight blue silk, strapless, boned so tight Brett's already tiny twenty-three inch waist looked like it could be spanned by Lance's hands alone. The bodice was sculpted over his D cup breasts, pushing them up into a soft, perfect swell, the sweetheart neckline dipping just low enough to be sinful in a ballroom full of billionaires' wives. The skirt fell from his hips in a straight column to the floor, but the left side was slit all the way to the top of his thigh — not a slit for walking, a slit for showing.

When he moved, a flash of long, golden leg appeared, then disappeared. When he stood still, he was pure elegance.

No pantyhose tonight. Nico had insisted. Just skin, smooth and airbrushed, and on his feet, the highest shoes he'd ever worn — not the So Kates, not the platforms. Custom silver strappy sandals with a six-inch stiletto heel, thin as a needle, wrapping up his ankles like jewelry. They made his 129-pound frame tower, made his calves look endless, made every step a balancing act and a promise.

His long honey blonde hair was swept up into a soft, romantic updo, tendrils curling around his face and the nape of his neck, exposing the delicate gold chain with the single diamond, exposing the three-carat engagement ring that flashed on his left hand like a weapon.

His makeup was dramatic for once — smoky navy and silver on his lids to match the dress, his big blue eyes lined in black, his lashes so long they brushed his brows, his lips painted a deep, bruised berry that made his sharp canines look dangerous when he smiled.

He looked like a movie star. He looked like a fantasy. He looked like Lance Sullivan's fiancée.

Lance walked out of the closet in a black tuxedo, his bow tie undone, and stopped dead when he saw Brett.

"Jesus, Brielle," he breathed, his blue eyes going dark and hot instantly, raking from Brett's bare shoulders, down the tight bodice, down the slit that showed his thigh, to those impossible silver heels. "You're trying to kill me."

Brett turned slowly, letting the slit fall open, letting Lance see all the way to the top of his stocking-free leg, and smiled that slow, dangerous smile.

"Next level flirting, remember?" Brett purred in his soft alto, walking toward Lance on those six-inch stilettos like he'd been born in them, his hips swaying with every step, the silk whispering around his legs. "You said formal dance. I dressed for it."

Lance caught him around the waist, his big hands spanning Brett's corseted middle, pulling him flush against his tuxedo, and Brett felt him hard instantly through the layers of silk and wool.

"You're going to start a war in there," Lance growled against Brett's ear, his mouth brushing the tendril of hair at his neck, his breath hot. "My dad, my mom, every man in that room is going to look at you."

"Good," Brett whispered back, his hands sliding up Lance's chest, straightening his bow tie with deliberate, slow fingers, his berry lips curved. "Let them look. I'm yours."

The ballroom was a sea of diamonds and whispers when they entered, Lance's hand possessive and low on Brett's bare back, right above the zipper of the dress.

Eleanor was at the head table in pale gold, Richard beside her in his tux, both of them turning as one when Lance and Brett walked in.

Brett felt Eleanor's eyes go straight to the slit, to the leg, to the six-inch heels, and felt a small, fierce triumph bloom in his chest. Not the dove-grey girl from tea, Mrs. Sullivan.

Richard's gaze lingered longer, hotter, on the swell of Brett's breasts in the strapless bodice, on the berry stain of his mouth, and Brett felt Lance's hand tighten warningly on his waist.

The music started — a slow, aching waltz — and Lance led Brett onto the middle of the dance floor, his hand sliding from Brett's waist to take his left hand, his right hand settling hot and firm on the small of Brett's back, right on bare skin where the dress dipped low.

They moved.

God, they moved.

Lance was a perfect lead, strong and sure, turning Brett in slow circles, and Brett — Brett who had spent eleven weeks learning to walk in heels in his Montana bedroom — followed like water, like silk, like he'd been dancing in six-inch stilettos his whole life.

The slit opened with every turn, flashing his long leg, flashing the silver shoe, and Brett felt every eye in the room on them, felt the heat of it, felt the power of it.

He leaned in closer, his breasts brushing Lance's tuxedo jacket, his mouth at Lance's jaw.

"Everyone's watching," Brett breathed, his voice barely audible over the strings, his blue eyes locked on Lance's.

"Let them," Lance murmured, his thumb stroking slow circles on Brett's bare back, sending shivers straight down Brett's spine, straight to his core. "You feel that?"

Brett gasped as Lance pulled him impossibly closer on the next turn, his thigh sliding between Brett's legs through the slit, the silk bunching high, the hard muscle of Lance's leg pressing right where Brett needed it most.

"They think we're dancing," Lance whispered, his lips brushing Brett's ear, his voice rough with want. "They have no idea I'm about to come undone because my fiancée is grinding on my leg in the middle of my parents' gala."

Brett whimpered, low in his throat, his nails digging into Lance's shoulder through the tux, his body going liquid and hot, the maximum hormones making him ache, making him wet, making him desperate with just that pressure.

"Lance," Brett begged, his berry lips parted, his eyes blown wide and dark. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Lance purred, turning them again, his thigh pressing harder, his hand sliding lower on Brett's back, almost to the top of his ass, hidden by the crowd. "Don't make you feel good? Don't show everyone exactly who you belong to?"

Brett threw his head back, exposing his long throat, the diamond pendant flashing, and laughed — bright and breathless and completely unhinged.

"You're flirting," Brett accused, grinding down just slightly on Lance's thigh, feeling Lance jerk in response.

"Next level," Lance corrected, his blue eyes black with lust, with love, with possession. "You started it in that dress."

The music swelled, and Lance dipped Brett low, one strong arm around his waist, Brett's back arched, his breasts pushed up, his long leg extended through the slit, the silver heel pointed, his hair coming loose from its updo.

The whole ballroom gasped.

And as Lance pulled him back up, slow and controlled, his mouth inches from Brett's, Brett saw Eleanor watching from the table, her teacup frozen halfway to her lips, saw Richard staring with naked hunger, and felt nothing but triumph.

He wasn't the boy in the hoodie anymore.

He wasn't even the demure girl in dove-grey.

He was Brielle Sullivan, in midnight silk and six-inch heels, making a billionaire lose his mind on a dance floor.

He leaned in the last inch and brushed his berry lips across Lance's, just a whisper of a kiss, a promise, right there in front of everyone.

"Take me home," Brett whispered against his mouth, his voice shaking with want, with power, with love. "Now."

Lance didn't answer. He just took Brett's hand, led him straight off the dance floor, past his staring parents, past the whispering crowd, out the ballroom doors, into the waiting elevator.

And the second the doors closed, Lance had Brett pressed against the mirrored wall, his hands in his hair, his mouth devouring his, the midnight silk rucked up to his waist, the six-inch heels wrapped around Lance's hips.

Next level flirting, indeed...