Page 23 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Is that why you brought me here? To dance?”

I was already closing the gap, my hands out, palms up. “You don’t have to. But I thought you might want to.”

She hesitated, then placed her hands in mine. Her grip was tentative, the pulse at her wrist had the speed and ferocity of a jackhammer. I pulled her close and she gasped. I’d meant to be gentle, I thought I had been, but maybe not gentle enough. She swallowed hard as I settled one hand at her waist. She was too stiff, too rigid, like a sparrow convinced it was about to be eaten alive. I had to fight the urge to say something soothing, which was not my skill set.

I set her right hand on my shoulder and said, almost a growl, “Just follow.”

We started slow, almost comically so, inching our way in a wide circle under the glow of the chandelier. The only music was the scrape of our shoes on wood and the wild, relentless beat of her heart, which I could feel through her ribs. She was a terrible dancer. I didn’t care. Every time she stepped on my foot, she apologized in a rush, “Sorry, sorry, I-" and each time it only made me want to pull her closer, to force her to stop apologizing and just be.

After a few minutes, her body softened, the tension in her arms releasing by fractions. Her breath slowed. She looked up at me once, startled by something in my expression, then looked away, pink blooming up her cheeks.

I wanted to say something clever, but all I could manage was, “You’re doing fine.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“If I thought you were hopeless, I’d have given up already. But you’re a quick learner.”

She snorted. “Did Gareth Wolfe just compliment me?”

“Absolutely not.” But I had. What the heck was I doing?

But this moment burned into my brain and I wanted to keep it forever, us circling and circling, alone in a room meant for hundreds.

I thought of my mother, of her hands on my shoulders as she barked out the count, “One, two, three, dammit Gareth, again” -until I could waltz without tripping over my own feet. The memory was sharp enough to draw blood, and I pushed it aside.

Instead, I focused on Eden, her scent, the damp heat of her skin, the way her hair clung to her neck as she started to sweat. I wanted to drag her into the corner and see if her pulse would pound harder if I kissed her like I wanted to, hungry, rough, desperate. I wasn’t going to do that. I kept us spinning, slow and relentless.

She lost her footing and stumbled into me, catching herself with both hands on my chest. The contact had me hard as a rock, and I tried to put a little space between us while keeping her on her feet. I wanted to freeze time, to keep her pressed to me, but she pulled back almost immediately, mortified.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

I caught her by the wrist, not rough, just enough to stop her from fleeing. “It’s okay.”

She didn’t move. She looked up at me, eyes wide and glassy, and for a second I thought she was going to cry. Instead, she let out a sound. A barely-there moan that she tried to swallow, but I heard it, heard the wanting in it.

My self-control snapped. I tilted her chin up and kissed her, just once, nothing obscene, just heat and pressure and the taste of her mouth, as if that would prove that whatever this was between us wasn’t real. She went rigid, then melted against me, hands fisting in the fabric of my jacket.

When I pulled away, we both stood there, breathing like we’d run a mile.

“Are you okay?” I asked, and hated myself for how desperate it sounded.

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yes.”

“I apologize, I had no right.”

Her voice was tiny, and almost had me throwing her over my shoulder and taking her to my room. “I liked it.”

We danced for another minute. I could feel her trembling, but I didn’t let go. Not until the light from the chandelier flickered, and I realized we’d been in there long enough for the sun to drop below the horizon.

When we finally stepped apart, she looked different: taller, maybe, or just less scared.

I offered my arm. She took it, and we walked back toward the main hall in silence.

Just outside the ballroom, I heard voices. Maribel and two of the kitchen girls. They were meticulously cleaning the kitchen while talking.

“Twenty says they don’t even make it to the reunion before he cracks,” said one.

Maribel laughed. “He’s already cracked. Give it three days, tops.”