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And we dance.
Granted, the beat is way faster than my movements, but hey. Can’t beat slow-dancing, like in the eighties. It would be a waste of time, time a girl could spend glued to a hot body like Ocean’s. I mean, crap, he’s like a god imagined by crazed female worshippers. He’s perfect.
I’d love to be glue on his ripped chest, dripping down his stomach to his hard-on… I wonder how big he is down there, and how much bigger he’d be aroused, and…
“What are you doing?” He’s resisting my concerted efforts, stiff as a board against me. “Kay.”
“Dancing.” I thought it was obvious. I grin up at him.
He frowns, and I tilt my hea
d to the side, studying him.
Weird. This isn’t the Ocean I’m used to. In the strobing lights hitting us from above, he looks so serious and focused. Sharply defined, made of angles and shadows.
Nothing like the sunny boy I’ve observed for so long, drinking and flirting and having fun with his friends. More like the tortured heroes in the novels I like to read.
And that’s too bad. Because, like Ev so aptly explained, I’m attracted to those tragic, brooding boys in the novels, and I should learn to separate reality from fiction.
You’re drunk, Kayla, I tell myself. So drunk. Stop with the weird thoughts. Focus on the physical evidence.
Check for clues.
Like the width of his heavy biceps under my hands, the hard and warm muscles under the fine cotton of his T-shirt.
Mmm. This is more like it. Wait until I tell Ev I finally copped a feel.
“You’re not dancing.” I pout and tug on him again, and reluctantly, awkwardly, he moves along with me.
“Kay?” he whispers, and this time my name is weighed with more questions than I want to think about. His eyes look dark in the changing lights, his hair a silken curtain falling in his handsome face.
We’ve never danced together before. We had shots, and beers, and talked about movies and music and all sorts of unimportant things—but I’ve never touched him, except by chance, my hand brushing his as I reached for something.
I sure am touching him now.
Through the haze of alcohol, I feel the lines of his body, and man, he’s more ripped than I thought. I lift my arms and lock them behind his neck. For some reason, he’s so tense tendons stand out under my hands like steel cables. My boobs are mashed to a chest hewn of rock, and my stomach is pressed to…
Something long and thick and hard. Something so hot it’s burning through the layers of clothes and branding my skin.
I blink.
Is that for me, or is he packing a tattoo gun in his pants? Is he—?
“Kay.” He grabs my shoulders and peels me off him like I’m a badly-stuck sticker. “You’re drunk. And it’s time to take you home.”
Nah, he’s hung, I guess. I lick my lips at the thought.
And he’s no fun tonight.
“What’s the hurry?” I whine as he drags me off the dance floor, then holds out my coat and dresses me like I’m a child. Probably because I’m whining like one. “We came here to have fun.”
Something shifts in his thunderous expression. Something flashes through his eyes. Guilt? Remorse? Regret?
Nah. Probably impatience.
“Next time I ask for a bodyguard,” I say sighing, taking my purse from his hand and slinging it over my shoulder, “I’ll ask for someone who’s fun.”
Now he definitely looks pissed. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
