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Nobody talks to me like that. I’ll show her. I’ll show this curvy little miss what it means to be a boss.
Out of the blue, she lifts her hand. The bouncing wave in her fabulous tits is more than I can take. She says, “This music is the best,” and she smiles. If I could just watch her smile, that would be perfect. But she goes on, “It makes me want to dance so much.”
“Dance,” I tell her. “It would be a pleasure to watch you.”
“Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Don’t or won’t?”
I would be furious if anyone else challenged me that way. I don’t know if I can get any more furious with her. Yet, somehow, she makes me want to smile.
But I have to tell her, “I don’t.”
I’m not going to admit to her that I can’t dance. But the only other choice I can see is to dance. I glance at what the models are doing. They dance as easily as breathing. Their bodies flow like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Ella says, “I don’t step out on stage in front of a worldwide audience, but I did it for you. Dance with me.”
Well, seriously. How hard can it be?
I lead her off the stage. Some of the guests look around and applaud, seeing us step down to the dance floor. Great. I’m going to dance with this crazy woman and make a total fool of myself, and I’m going to have an audience.
For an added bonus, they’re all from the press. Business, technology, finance, and fashion journalists and bloggers are all here to report on me making an ass of myself.
I’ll show her. And I’ll show all of them. I have enough of a sense of rhythm to move in time. I follow the music and point my hands out. Turn my torso on the beat. Move my legs in time.
My jaw clenches when I catch sight of her face. She’s holding back a laugh. And she has to keep looking away, she’s finding it so hard to keep a straight face.
She watches me twist, then she leans forward. Touches my shoulder.
“You really don’t have to try so hard. Just let the music carry you. Like a wave on the ocean.” She sways. I keep a straight face, but every time her hips rock and her thighs part, I want to scoop her up and rip off that dress.
Her body swings naturally. I want to swing with her, but I’m too stiff. In more ways than one. I wish I could just watch her move. I wish I could just carry her out of here. Take her up on the roof. Get between those incredible thighs.
Taste her. Bury my face in her soft tits. Pump her and squeeze her breath into mine.
Two models dance near us. One looks at me and she looks away. Then she looks back, shaking with agrin and with her knuckles up to her teeth. I feel like I’m losing coordination.
The suppressed giggle in Ella’s eyes looks ready to explode all over her face.
It’s so infectious that I let out a laugh too.
We turn, and Ella gives me a smile that warms me like sunshine. Then the music changes.
“I really can’t dance to this.” It’s slow. Sinuous. A rhythm that snakes up from the floor and straight into my hips and my cock. Everyone on the dance floor is coupling up.
“No. I really can’t do this,” I tell her, backing away as she approaches.
“Come on, this is the easy part.” She reaches out. I want her in my arms so much. “You don’t even need to do any dancing for this. One dance, then I have to go.”
I put my hand up to say ‘no,’ but my palm collides with hers. A flash bolts through my body like a silent bang of lightning. Her hand and mine are momentarily stuck together like magnets.
For an instant, I’m stunned. Her pupils widen. She must have felt it, too. It was like static electricity, but liquid. Chemical.
My arm is still moving. Hers, too. Somehow I wind up with my arm around her waist. She stretches up to speak into my ear. “What are you doing to me, Dickie?”
I hate her calling me that.
