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My lips press together.
She’s mine.
I’ll do whatever it takes to cement it.
The track changes to the final one of the night. I know it’s the end because she’s rehearsed the set for weeks.
It’s time.
“Excuse me,” I tell our friends as I exit the booth.
The perimeter of the dance floor is lined with grinding bodies lost in their ecstasy.
“Only performers are allowed—I’m sorry, Mr. King,” the security guard amends, ducking his head in deference when I reach the curtained boundary.
I stand behind the booth, watching her in profile as the final seconds of the music tick down.
The chords explode and the lights cut off.
I step on stage and drag her against me. Her body, warm and curved, fits mine to perfection. Her sharp intake of breath makes me hard.
“Marry me now,” I whisper against her mouth. “Here. In Vegas.”
