“What are you doing?” I pull on Alexander’s hand as he lifts it.
“Don’t look so worried,” he murmurs, pulling me closer.
Did he just wince?
His hand brushes my waist as it comes to rest on my hip, my stomach swooping someplace between weightless and a jangle of knots.
“It’s just a dance, Holland. Don’t you want to dance with me?” His voice was made for seduction. That devil’s mouth of his.
The bigger the man, the bigger the asshole. The worse his sins.
The greater the temptation. And the annoyance.
“You make me nervous.” The words are out of my mouth without my permission, and I could curse myself.
“You know what will help with that?” He cocks an eyebrow as we begin to move across the dance floor, and before I can respond, he says, “Let me lead.”
My breath hitches as I’m suddenly pressed tight to his body. He’s looking down at me with the most disarming smile, and we’re being swallowed by the crowd in the middle of the dance floor. Somehow, the music has changed from Nora Jones to something a little Latin. Latin for the girl who had to be dragged onto the dance floor by June’s nurse. I have two left feet, and neither of them knows how to keep a rhythm.
“I don’t . . . I can’t. I don’t know how the dance steps go.” I’m not sure he can hear me over the sudden increase in the music’s volume, but surely, he can read my expression.
“It’s fine.” I hear the rumble of his response and feel his smile pressed against my cheek. “I’ve got you.” He lifts my hand, curling it around the back of his neck, his fingers making a tantalising path down my arm. I gasp, and not just because my nerve endings dance from his touch but also because he then pushes his strong thigh between mine.
A ripple of awareness runs through us both. This position isn’t our first rodeo. I’ve ridden this thigh once or twice before.
“I really don’t think—”
“Then don’t.” His words are a satisfied hum, the kind that turns my grey matter to grey mush.
Just don’t think about what a bad idea this is.
It’s just a dance. It’ll be over soon.
Just don’t think about how this dance is a vertical expression of my desire to be horizontal with him.
“Just relax. If there’s one place you’re allowed not to think, it’s while you’re dancing.”
Or being screwed, my mind supplies. But it’s impossible not to think as his arm wraps around me, pulling my body against his until his fingers are curling around my ribs. And doubly impossible as he begins to move, all sinuous hips that encourage me to move with him. To undulate against him. Suddenly, my mind is filled with an image from the movie Dirty Dancing, where Johnny tries to teach Baby how to move. I remember watching the movie with Dede and Nana, cringing and hiding behind the cushion at her ineptitude.
Oh, man. I’m Baby. Someone please put me in the corner!
“Don’t fight,” comes Alexander’s honeyed coaxing. “Relax into the music. Let me . . .”
I miss the rest of his sentence as he presses his lips to my hairline. Tiny pop rocks of pleasure explode inside me because I think I felt those words just fine.
Let me have you.
Oh, my. Stick a fork in me, for I am done!
His solid thigh. The way he holds me and the way his body moves against mine. The way he makes my body respond to his. It’s like sex.
Like a prelude, my mind whispers.
How can I not be turned on when I’m rubbing myself against the thick thigh he’s jammed between my legs? One arm around his neck, I lift the other to the broad expanse of his chest, spreading my fingers wide just because I can. I’d almost forgotten how good he smells. A woodsy-scented cologne and the inimitable musk of man.
“What is it?” he asks as I unglue my gaze from his chest. I think I was going to tell him he smells good and to ask the name of the cologne he wears. Realising how ridiculous that sounds and how the probability of my turning beetroot when my gaze meets his, I glance left instead.
Boy, our efforts are pretty tame compared to those dancing around us.
Sexual eye contact. Sensual hips. Trailing hands. Salsa that’s more simulated sex than anything else.
How are they not burning with embarrassment?
Burning with need?
These aren’t questions I’m about to voice aloud. I wouldn’t be able to, anyway. Not as Alexander’s hands caress the side of my head, bringing my attention back to him. The look he gives me is nothing short of explosive as his fingers set a trail of fire down my arms the moment before he somehow spins my body away from his, twirling me back just as quick. My stomach goes weightless, blood rushing through my veins with a nervous kind of excitement. There’s a kind of freedom in letting him lead. An exhilarating freedom.
As he tightens his arms, bringing me even closer, my breasts are pressed flush against him. Our eyes meet, and he knows I know what he’s doing to me. I can see it in that dark blue self-satisfied gleam. He can probably feel the heat pouring from me. I will actually die when this is over if I’ve left a damp patch on his pants.
Over his thickly muscled thigh.
Oh, Lord.
But the thoughts don’t last long as he dips me backward, making the blood rush to my head. As he lifts me upright, warmth licks through my insides as our noses almost touch, and . . . I’m back to riding his thigh again.
And anticipating the hard brush of him.
“How are you feeling now?” Alexander’s words are pressed into the soft skin of my neck, his next breath a soft grunt as I bring my hands to his hips.
Hot. I feel hot. Inside. Outside. A heated pleasure seems to pulse from my fingertips to my toes. But none of that seems like the kind of things I should be sharing. Not with him. Not now.
“I-I’m okay.” If okay means primed to go off like a firework.
His low laughter seems to shock us both.
Please, Lord above, don’t let me have said that.
The music begins to slow as he takes my hand in his, sliding me a look that makes my skin hum. By silent agreement, he leads me from the dance floor. We step out of the open French doors at the far side of the room and down onto the terrace.
The cool evening air does nothing to ease my blood.
“Alexander.” I hold up my hand to stop him when he brings it to his chest where it once again becomes passive. He steps closer, his eyes glimmering like the stars in the night sky the moment before he slides his lips across mine.
Was the groan his or mine as my hands slip under his jacket, unable to find purchase against the fabric.
Another groan, this time mine as he steals my breath and feeds me his. This is the exact kind of kiss that’s meant for darkened hallways in Latin clubs. For museum rooms. For castle kitchens. For bedrooms.
“We shouldn’t.” Even as I protest, my mouth is greedy for his as my bones liquefy and my insides turn molten.
“But we are.” Alexander spins me, pressing me up against the roughness of the wall, the cool stone penetrating the thin fabric of my dress.
The soft brush of his breath against my neck feels like heaven as I reach for the hard length of him.
Patterns. We’re following old patterns.
“Not here. Come to my room, Holland. Let me have you for a night. For a lifetime.” Though his mouth still dances over mine, his words catch my attention.