//CLARA//
The wall hit my spine before I could even draw a breath to complain.
Casimir's mouth descended on mine with a brutal hunger. We were standing in the upper gallery corridor, just literally twenty feet from where the guests were sipping champagne.
My protest was swallowed whole as his tongue forced its way down my throat, tasting of vintage whiskey and fury.
His hand swept down my torso. I wasn't wearing some hundred-pound, multi-layered ball gown. I had designed this piece myself. It was sleek, modern emerald silk with a daring, razor-sharp high slit that traveled all the way up to my upper thigh.
Casimir used every single inch of that design to his absolute advantage.
