I guide her away with my hand on the small of her back. “You okay?”
“Fine. No matter how long I do this, it’s still weird when the professional and personal collide.” She glances up at me. “Everyone knows Curvy Cupid. Not many people know Tessa.”
“Dance with me,” I say.
Her eyebrows rise. “You dance?”
“Not well. But my sister is walking toward us, and the alternative is her interrogating you.”
Tessa laughs and sets her wine on a passing tray. “Lead the way.”
We’ve been on the floor for two songs, and I’m in trouble.
Tessa’s hand is on the back of my neck, her fingers playing with the short hair there, and every brush of her nails sends a current down my spine that makes my cock ache for release. Her body moves against mine like we’ve done this a hundred times—her hips swaying with the music, pressing into me and pulling back, a rhythm that’s destroying my ability to think straight.
The silk of her dress is thin enough that I can feel everything: the warmth of her skin, the soft give of her waist under my palm, the generous curve of her hips where my hand has drifted lower than any gentleman would allow. She hasn’t moved it back.
The more we dance, the harder I get. Have been since the first song, when she pressed close and made a quiet sound against my shoulder, which ignited a protective instinct in me. Now I’m gritting my teeth and trying to think about threat assessments and security protocols and anything other than how badly I want to take her somewhere private and show her what she’s doing to me.
She tilts her head back to look at me, and I stare at the pale line of her throat and imagine pressing my mouth there. Imagine her breath catching. Imagine her fingers tightening in my hair while I work my way down to the neckline of that dress and find out what’s underneath.
My hand tightens on her hip. She notices, but she shifts closer instead of pulling away. The soft weight of her breasts presses more firmly against my chest, and I have to close my eyes for a second to keep from doing something stupid in the middle of a charity gala.
“You’re tense,” she murmurs.
I’m dying.“I’m fine.”
“You don’t feel fine.” Her thumb traces a slow circle on my neck. “You feel like you’re about to snap.”
She has no idea. Or maybe she does. Maybe the way my hand keeps tightening on her hip is giving me away. I want to back her into a dark corner and put my mouth on every inch of skin this dress is showing me. I want to find out what sounds she makes when there’s no one else around. I want to slide those straps off her shoulders and suck her luscious tits.
The song ends. In the silence before the next one, I hear myself speak.
“Want to get out of here for a few minutes?”
She pulls back enough to look at me. Her eyes are dark, her lips parted, and I can see the same want I’m feeling written all over her face. I hope I’m reading her right. Everything in me is betting that I am.
“Yes.”
The terrace is freezingand occupied. I drape my jacket over Tessa’s shoulders without stopping and nod toward the glass structure glowing at the edge of the hotel grounds.
“Follow me.”
The Conservatory door opens onto a different world. Humid air wraps around us, heavy with jasmine and the scent of wet earth. Orchids climb iron trellises along the walls. The glass ceiling is beaded with moisture, blurring the night sky above us. Waterdrips somewhere in the quiet, and the quartet is a faint melody carried across the grounds.
Tessa slips my jacket off and drapes it over a stone bench. She wanders ahead of me, trailing her fingers along a railing draped with greenery, and I follow close enough to touch her but holding back. Barely. Every step she takes in front of me is a test of willpower—the way the silk moves over her hips, the glimpse of her bare shoulders, the soft curve of her neck where I want to press my mouth.
She stops in front of a cluster of white orchids, their petals heavy with mist, and tilts her head to study them.
I come up behind her. My hand finds hers, and our fingers lace together. Her breath speeds up, and my pulse hammers in response.
“They’re beautiful,” she says softly.
“They’re not even close to you.”
She turns, and we’re standing so close I could kiss her. The humidity has loosened the curls around her face, and a strand is clinging to her temple. I reach up and tuck it behind her ear, letting my fingertips trail along the curve of her jaw. She leans into my hand, just barely, and the small surrender in that gesture nearly takes my knees out.
We walk deeper in, hand in hand, past hanging planters and trellises heavy with blooms. The gala is gone. It’s just us, the flowers, the warm, wet air, and the electricity humming between our clasped hands.
