Page 10 of The Trouble with Flings

After dinner we make our way to the dance floor. Everyone seems more relaxed now. As if they had enough to drink to stop caring about appearances, which I appreciate, because when Fitz draws me into his arms, it feels so good, I stop caring, too.

We didn’t dance at the bar the night we spent together on Silver Island, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find Fitz is a good dancer. Most of the guys I’ve gone out with treat dancing like a necessary precursor to getting me into bed. This doesn’t feel like that. Fitz isn’t hurried or sidetracked. He dances like he seems to do everything, with complete control and confidence, and he’s as focused on me now as he has been all night. I’m not used to that, but I don’t hate it.

He holds me closer, his lips brushing my temple as he says, “You’re an incredible dancer.”

“Thanks. My mother says I came out of her womb dancing.”

“I believe it. The way you move…Fuck, you’re intoxicating.”

His voice is a low growl, searing through me like a torch. How does he do that with a few simple words? “You dance like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.”

His lips curve up at the edges, and he tightens his hold on me as we sway to the music. “I’m paying attention.”

“To the music?”

“To you,” he says huskily.

The answer lands somewhere low in my stomach. “Is dancing expected of you as a Silver?” I ask, trying to rein in the heat billowing inside me.

“No.”

“No fancy dance lessons?” I tease.

“Not formal ones. My mother used to take me out on the dance floor when I was young. She taught me a thing or two, and my younger sisters love to dance. I guess you could say I was forced to learn or endure a lifetime of their heckling.” He says it affectionately, the same way he spoke of them over dinner.

He twirls me, then draws me close again.

We dance to a few songs, and his eyes remain trained on me the whole time, stoking the fire between us. The way he watches me with hunger and appreciation makes me crave more, dance sexier. When the song shifts to something slower and heavier, the bass rolling through the floor, Fitz’s arm slides around me again, and he tugs me closer. The conversations around us dissolve into murmurs as couples drift by.

His palm spreads across my back, keeping our bodies flush, and he speaks into my ear. “You like when I watch you.”

More than I’ll ever admit. “You like watching me,” I counter.

“Yes, I do. You move like the music owns you.”

I want you to own me tonight hangs on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to keep it to myself.

He flashes a knowing smile, like he can read my mind and has the decency not to say it.

The next song has a little more pull to it, a little more heat in the rhythm, and we match the energy. His thigh moves between mine, my hand sliding to the back of his neck. His hand on my back presses me closer, trapping me against his hard body, reminding me of how he was in the bedroom, which only makes me want him more. I tip my chin up, meeting his hungry eyes.

“Having a good time?” he asks, as if he can’t tell.

“Not bad,” I say.

He huffs out a laugh. “Liar.” He leans closer, rasping, “Tell me the truth, Jennifer.”

My pulse spikes at the demand, punctuated by my name, which has never sounded so sexy. My entire body hums with desire, and I ponder the truth. I want you. I’ve been trying to maintain a reasonable distance from that particular truth all evening.

Holding it back, because I know it’s what he wants to hear, and I’m supposed to remain in control tonight, I finally say, “I am. I’m selectively honest.”

“Jennifer,” he demands, and hell if that doesn’t turn me on.

With his hand at my back and his eyes doing what they do best, I am fresh out of reasonable responses. My mouth is so close to his jaw, I want to feel it against my lips. Fighting that urge, I say, “I can’t remember the last time I had a night this good.”

His hand slides up my back, and he tangles his fingers in my hair, holding tight, sending stings of pleasure skittering through me. “Lying will get you nowhere, wild girl.”

My heart races. I forgot how quickly and easily he read me the last time we were together. I swallow hard, loving that insane connection as much as I fear it ruining me again, and admit, “I haven’t had this good of a time since the last time we were together.”