Which makes no sense, because, hello, it’s Reid.
Totally. Off. Limits.
Dammit. This was a terrible idea. I never should’ve brought up dancing. Of course Reid called my bluff. And now I’m stuck with him for at least one song. No way I’m backing down. Because of the stunt he pulled with the frat dude, not because I actually need to feel his body pressed to mine.
Obviously.
The opening chords of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blast through the sound system, and I throw my arms up and do a little shimmy. Becca’s tiny skirt rides up on my hips, revealing even more of my thighs than before. I should pull the skirt back down—it’s getting downright scandalous—but when I glance over my shoulder at Reid, he’s staring at my legs like they might be the death of him.
Good. Serves you right for being a controlling ass!
Encouraged by Reid’s reaction, I do the shimmy again and sway to the music, tossing my hair over my shoulder like I’ve seen Becca do a million times before. I start to move in time with the beat, keeping my back to Reid as I sway my hips seductively, inviting him closer. If we’re going to continue this battle of wills, you can bet your ass I’m playing to win.
Apparently, so is Reid.
The song’s half over before his restraint cracks. He steps up behind me, matching the lazy rhythm of my hips as he molds his body to mine. I stiffen instinctively at the closeness, but relax after a beat, melding my back to his chest. His cock is flush against my ass, and I give another slow sweep of my hips, enjoying the feel of his hard length against my backside.
This is wrong on about twelve freaking levels, but in the dark with the happy glow of alcohol buzzing through my system, it feels right. Why shouldn’t I dance with Reid? It doesn’t mean anything, and he did scare the frat guy off.
Not that I was into him, but still.
I raise my arms over my head, letting the beat of the music drive my movements as the heavy bass reverberates through my body. I’ve always loved dancing, that feel of letting go of everything and connecting with something bigger than yourself. The hem of my tank inches skyward, exposing the flesh beneath. Before I can cover it up, Reid skims calloused fingers over the curve of my hip, leaving a trail of scorched skin and unfettered desire in his wake.
I’m so screwed.
We lose ourselves in the beat of the music, sweaty bodies saying everything our mouths can’t or shouldn’t. As one song bleeds into another, our limbs moving in harmony, I forget about all the reasons this is a bad idea.
All the reasons Reid’s off-limits.
All the reasons I shouldn’t want him.
When the DJ slows it down, I turn to Reid, ready to suggest we take a break, but he reaches for me, offering me his hand. There’s a challenge in the arch of his brow and the slant of his lips. He thinks I’ll say no. I clasp my fingers with his and allow him to pull me close. I wrap my arms around his neck, my breasts pressed to the hard muscles of his chest like it’s no big deal—even though it so is—as we sway to the music.
“You weren’t kidding.” I look up at him from under my lashes, taking the opportunity to study his face. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a fine stubble lining his jaw, but it does little to detract from the fullness of his lips or the dimple I can’t stop thinking about. “About being a good dancer, I mean.”
“Parents made me take dance until I was twelve,” he admits, his breath hot against my cheek.
“You did not.” Although as soon as I say it, I remember Vaughn’s nickname: Twinkle Toes.
“Would I joke about wearing a leotard?” He wiggles his brows. “Trust me. There’s nothing more awkward than a twelve-year-old boy with raging hormones and a pair of ill-fitting tights.”
I laugh in spite of myself. I can totally picture it. “You probably loved it because it gave you a chance to show off your giant package.” Heat floods my cheeks, and I take a step back, dropping my hands to my sides. I cannot believe those words just came out of my mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I meant—”
“Oh, no you don’t.” He smirks and pulls me back into his arms, locking them around my waist. “I want to hear more about this giant package.”
“Yes, well, I actually meant to say giant ego.” God, I suck at lying. He can probably see right through me.
“Riiiight. You know, if you want to see my package, all you have to do is ask.” My nostrils flare, and I’m sure he knows I’m thinking about his giant cock—how could I not after that statement?—so he pushes the advantage. “I promised myself the next time we kissed, it would be because you were begging for it. But I’ve realized something. A real man doesn’t need a woman to beg. Hell, I should be groveling at your feet for another taste of sweet salvation.”
Sweet salvation.
Reid’s words land like a firestorm, obliterating all rational thought and melting my defenses. He’s the last guy I should want. Problem is, he’s the only guy my ovaries crave. I haven’t forgotten the way his lips worshipped mine or the feel of his thick arms wrapped around me, holding me tight. And all this dancing—if you can even call
