“Fair.” I hate that she’s had a bad day. A bad week, really. “Wanna dance?”
“You dance?” Her brows lift, and a slight smile teases her lips.
“I’ve got some moves.”
“I’m sure you do.” She rolls her eyes.
“You don’t believe me?” I play it off as if I’m offended, but the reality is I’m not ready for her to ditch me for her friends and the guy who made her laugh. I steal a sip of whiskey. “Hey, I am a master on the dance floor. Come on, I’ll prove it. Two songs out there and your panties might spontaneously combust.”
“You should come with a warning label.” Her retort is laced with sarcasm.
I flash her a wicked smile. “More like a public service announcement.” The idea of her without panties broadens the stretch of my lips. “If nothing, it’s the responsible thing to do.”
“Protector of women’s undergarments.”
“I’ve been called worse.” I slam back the rest of my drink, wanting two free hands to touch her if we’re really gonna do this. “Come on, Rachel. Dance with me. Unless you’re too scared.”
She holds her drink, assessing me with a stare as she takes another sip. My dick stirs at the way her lips purse around her straw. I fight off visions of them wrapped around certain parts of my body before I start sporting wood.
“One dance.” I hold out my hand and wait.
She places her long, capable fingers in mine and I tug her forward as I weave us toward the crowd of bodies and thumping bass. The sound reverberates in my chest and my heartbeat races. Her skin is soft, and my fingers ache to touch more than just her hand. I brush my thumb across the inside of her wrist, over her pulse point, and pretend it speeds along with mine—that she feels the same hit of dopamine I do, every time we’re close. As we squeeze past bodies, deeper into the heat of the darkened dance floor, I imagine her thrilling with the promise of our bodies pressed together, grinding, touching, moving with abandon. Silly, maybe. But when I stop and turn to wrap my arms around her waist, our eyes catch under the moving overhead beams of light and I swear she appears every bit as turned on as I am.
The song is faster than I’d like, but beggars can’t be choosy, and right now my hands rest on Rachel’s luscious hips—something I’ve been dying to do since finding her stranded on the freeway at the beginning of the week.
She holds her drink with one hand and the other rests on my shoulder. She’s a good dancer, not that I had any doubts. She moves with confidence, her hips swaying to the music. I do my best to keep things PG, but give her a taste of my bedroom skills, rolling my hips and leaning closer with each minute that passes. Flashes of color strobe overhead, spinning rays of amber, blue, and red on the sea of people. My skin is flush, not just from exertion or the crowd, but because being this close and moving in this way makes me think of nothing but sex.
Another song begins and Rachel doesn’t pull out of my arms. It’s the only encouragement I need to stay on this dance floor.
Our gazes lock but she flips her hair back, sipping from her drink and breaking the connection. She’s scared. But of what? Of losing control? The undeniable attraction between us? Maybe she’s been burned before. Maybe she doesn’t trust men in general. Or maybe it’s just me?
Regardless, there’s an unexplainable desire to prove I’m worthy of her attention. That she’s safe with me. I want to earn her trust. I want to erase the walls and protect her from hurt. It’s so strong that now I’m the one looking at the floor between us wondering where the hell those ideas came from.
I don’t do feelings, or relationships that extend beyond physical satisfaction. I don’t get involved. I never get hurt. The collar of my shirt tightens. It’s too warm in this place. My pulse speeds with a tinge of panic. Too many people. Oh, look who’s scared now. “Another drink!” I shout at her ear, nod to the bar, and retreat as fast as my feet will take me. I don’t glance back to check whether she follows. I have to get some air.
“Whiskey.” I hold up my finger and stand in front of an empty barstool.
The skin around my bicep prickles with awareness at the gentle press of a hand.
“Hey.” Rachel’s eyes widen as she studies my features. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I say gruffly, wanting but failing to appear unaffected.
She stumbles forward, her body pressing against mine as some asshat drunkenly pushes past on his way toward the bathrooms. An accident most likely, but anger flares in my chest at how easily he could have knocked her over had we not been standing close.
My impulse to shout after him is cut short by her breath on my neck. “Don’t, Jude.” Her hand squeezes my arm again, but this time it’s like a shot straight to my heart. “He’s not worth it.”
Our gazes lock. The music of the club fades. My pulse speeds, thrums loudly in my ears as arousal tightens all my muscles. Her lips are so close. Close enough to kiss. Full and painted a deep red. Lips I’ve been preoccupied with all week. Dreaming of. Stroking myself to. But this isn’t a fantasy. This is real.
Her breath hitches, and this time it’s not my imagination. There’s something between us. A live wire, a crackling force aching for connection. It draws me closer. She doesn’t pull away, and I dip my chin to close the space between us. Closer. Almost.
Crash! She jumps. Glass shatters behind
