"If I were you, I'd get your hands off me before my husband sees you. Blood stains on this fabric would be a nightmare."
The wide-eyed man staring at me is probably five foot ten, with brown hair and blue eyes. He's dressed relatively decently, but he's boring. He doesn't have that gleaming earring, doesn't have those ridiculous dimples that take up half his face when he smiles, doesn't smell like musk and amber, and before I can continue listing all the reasons he's not the right man, the exact one I have in mind appears behind him and places a hand on his shoulder.
"If you don't take two steps back right now and run, I promise I'll throw the first blade from a distance. And I might miss because I want to dance with my wife and that's more important than putting holes in you...or maybe not..." he says, and I don't understand why I'm grinning like an idiot.
Therapy, Roxanne. It's called “you desperately need those therapy sessions.”
The man nods quickly and takes two steps back exactly as Damien instructed, but before my husband’s hand makes contact with the blade he always keeps at his back, my arms wrap around his neck.
My lips brush his jaw as I murmur, "Have mercy on him."
His eyes darken on my face, and tightening his hands on my waist, he tells me, "You will never beg for mercy for a man who dared to touch you."
"You're being dramatic. He just took his shot, and he was actually very polite when he took those two steps back."
I watch him start to shake with frustration that I'm still defending the guy, but I don't think he understands I'm doing it purely to annoy him. Because I love seeing this side of him, where he demands all my attention.
My lips travel up and I kiss his cheek, then move toward his mouth.
My feet are killing me in these heels, but I remind myself that beauty requires sacrifice.
But God, I want to throw them off right now because my toes are on the verge of collapse.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"These heels are killing me tonight," I murmur against his lips between kisses.
"Take them off."
"If you think I'm dancing barefoot on this floor where countless people have walked, I don't think we've been properly introduced," I say, laughing.
He looks at me for several seconds, and my cheeks flush because he has that intense, adoring look that makes my breathing stutter.
"Take them off and rest your feet on top of mine," he tells me.
Excuse me?
"Sorry, I think your head injury came back. Did you just say you want me to dance barefoot on your shoes?"
"Exactly what I said," he answers with a smile that makes his dimples even more visible.
"We'll go from me being in pain to you being in pain, so I don't think that's a solution, but I appreciate it, baby."
The next second he drops to his knees in the middle of the dance floor and grabs my heels, and even though I want to protest, the image of him kneeling in front of me makes my mind blank for a few moments. Important moments, because he manages to slip off my shoes and signals Stefan with his hand, who comes to take the heels from him, before lifting me gently so each of my feet rests on top of his shoes.
"I'm heavy, Damien," I mutter without looking at him.
"You're perfect." And he kisses my cheeks while his arms hold me tight against him.
I have to admit this sensation, after having my feet tortured for hours in those heels, feels almost like an orgasm, and maybe that's why I start kissing and biting his neck with more passion than would be appropriate for a public interaction.
I don't even know how long we stay like that, swaying to the music, but my heart feels like it might burst from warmth.
At some point, I'm lifted up and my legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
My dress rides up even more, but before I can process that thought, Damien's carrying me toward his office.
"Hey, Luna and Roman are still out there," I tell him, laughing.
