“Only if you don’t know me.”
His mouth tilts. “I don’t think I do. Who invited you?”
“Fate.”
“Did you say Faith?”
Hearing her name out of his mouth resets my brain for a beat. I merely smile and shake my head, before grinding a little too close on him. The distraction works, and he doesn’t press the issue, instead leaning closer still.
“Is this your sort of music?” he asks.
I give a noncommittal shrug. “All music is.”
“What should I call you?”
“Whatever you like.”
He twirls me to face him, and we stop dancing for a beat. “Who are you?”
“No one of consequence.”
For a moment, I think I’ve frustrated him too much. But then he smirks. “Do you always dance with strangers?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
“And how do you decide who’s interesting?”
“I watch. Most people want to be seen. Some want to see. The second kind is rarer. More interesting. Like you.”
His thumb presses lightly into my side, a reflex, like the compliment landed exactly where he keeps his composure. “And which kind are you?”
I smile. “Tonight? Both.”
We circle slowly, the crowd around us blurring into background noise. His hand drifts lower, just enough to toe a line. I respond by stepping closer, letting my hip settle against his, the slit in my dress doing dangerous things.
This is when the dancing changes.
It stops being polite. Our bodies move with intention now—controlled, but undeniably suggestive. My hand slides from his shoulder to his upper arm, fingers flexing once, feeling the muscle there. His breath changes. Just a fraction. My other hand slides into his tuxedo jacket, fingering the buttons of his shirt.
His gaze sharpens. “A pity I don’t know your name.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation?”
I lift a brow. “Anonymous woman in red.”
He laughs quietly, the sound warm and surprised, like he doesn’t do it often enough. The song dips again, slower, heavier, and he takes advantage, drawing me closer under the guise of the rhythm. It would be inappropriate at a formal event. It would definitely be noticed if anyone were paying attention.
And at parties like this, someone always is. That’s why I’m here.
Still, I lean in, close enough that my mouth is near his ear, my voice low. “Relax. No one’s watching us.”
“That’s not true.”
“I didn’t say no one’s looking.”
A hand slides between us, cool and insistent, manicured fingers closing around Damian’s arm like she’s reclaiming propertythat wandered off. The sudden break in contact leaves my skin buzzing, heat lingering where his hand had been.
