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Sensual.

Toeing off her sneakers, she nudges them against the wall. Then she sets her cell on my dresser and starts to sway her hips in time with the rhythm. But she doesn’t immediately face me. Not yet. Instead, she keeps her back to me. Soon, her movements become more pronounced, the rhythm traveling through her body, from her hips to her arms and her legs.

My fingers curl into the duvet as I watch her. Every sway or roll of her body quickens my pulse and makes the crotch of my jeans painfully tight.

Finally, she turns around and moves through the space with so much damn grace. All I can think of is what a tragedy it is that she never got the opportunity to dance professionally. She has me transfixed, just like she did all those years ago.

I don’t even know what moves she’s doing. All I know is I’ve never been so turned on watching a woman dance.

Every slow roll of her hips is sensual.

Every turn of her body is seductive.

Every time her eyes meet mine, they’re full of hunger.

And confidence.

She’s not dancing for an audience. For praise. For awards.

She’s dancing for herself. And I’m the lucky bastard who gets to watch.

She’s a goddamn siren, and I’m powerless to walk away, even though I know she very well could destroy me.

When she dances toward me and straddles my lap, I bring my hands to her hips, but she swats them away.

“You know the house rules, don’t you? No touching the dancers.”

I groan, frustration bubbling through me. “You’re killing me. You know that, right?”

“Don’t worry, baby,” she coos, leaning closer, her lips hovering over mine.

Every muscle in my body tightens with the need to kiss her in a way that erases every other thought from her mind. But as much as I crave her, I like this more. Like watching her dance. Like witnessing her reclaim the parts of herself she lost.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” She slowly grinds her hips against me, and I twist my fists into the duvet to prevent myself from reaching out and touching her. Which proves to be an extreme test of restraint when she reaches for the top button on her shirt.

But I keep my hands to myself, my eyes never leaving hers as she unfastens one button. Then another. And another.

The music pulses around us, my heart beating in time with it, my breathing growing shallower with every inch of skin she reveals.

When she finally reaches the last button, she lets the shirt fall open before sliding it from her shoulders. My jaw clenches so hard I’m convinced I’ll crack a tooth. But it would be worth it to experience Wynter like this.

She leans toward me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. Then she deliberately pulls away and climbs off my lap.

The sudden distance is almost painful, but I don’t look away. I can’t. Not when she continues moving to the music, her confidence growing with every beat.

There’s something hypnotic about watching her like this.

The way she moves.

The way she breathes.

The way she occasionally catches my gaze and holds it.

After unclasping her bra and tossing it to the floor, she smooths a hand over her breasts, down her stomach, and toward her waist. It’s fucking torture, especially when I want that to be my hand. When I want to be the one touching her.

Her fingers reach the button on her jeans, the seconds stretching as she unfastens it before pushing them down her legs and stepping out of them, leaving her panties in place.

With a mischievous smirk, she returns her eyes to mine and beckons me toward her with one finger.