He tips his head toward the dance floor. “Dance with me, Katie.”
“I don’t dance.” It’s a lie.
“You do tonight. Come on, I’ll lead, all you have to do is follow.”
I take his hand—callused palm, warm grip—and follow him onto the dance floor. His body slots in close behind me, not crowding, just moving against me, leading through the rhythm. The song is a pulse through the soles of my shoes; his chest is a solid heat against my shoulder blades. Our hips move together in a way that has nothing to do with choreography and everything to do with the way his breath feathers my ear.
I turn to face him, and we’re too close for the crowd we’re in. My crown slips again and before I lift my hand, he steadies it, steadying me with it. The sweep of his thumb at my temple isn’t sexual. My body doesn’t seem to care about motives at the moment.
“Cam,” I warn, breathless. “I kinda like dancing with you.”
“I think we fit together pretty well,” he says, mouth inches from mine.
“That sounded dirty,” I tease.
“Good.” His gaze slowly drops to my lips, then lifts to my eyes. “I have lots of dirty thoughts I can tell you about,” he adds quietly, and the room falls away, the music a distant heartbeat. “But I’ll only tell you if you want to hear them.”
His hand slips lower on my hip and I don’t think I can hold back any longer.
“Hallway,” I say, tipping my chin toward the corridor that leads to Gordy’s office, the walk-in, the staff bathroom—every nook I’ve sworn I’d never get caught in like some messy teenager. But the thought of being messy in this exact moment has my pulse climbing into a reckless pace.
Cam and I have been hanging out and awkwardly flirting for months and I’m about to test that line.
He doesn’t pretend not to understand. He threads our fingers and guides me through the crowd with an ease that reflects the way this man moves through the world: calm, capable, confident. The hallway is dim and blessedly empty. I shove him back against the paneled wall with a light thump, laughter caught in my throat, adrenaline flashing bright. His hands land on my hips, a warning and a welcome.
“Katie...”
“Don’t overthink it,” I say, and then I kiss him.
Heat. That’s all I feel when my lips meet his. Heat and the taste of tequila and the soft curse that slides from his mouth into mine when I press closer. He kisses like he coaches: attention to every angle, every adjustment, praise worth the effort. His tongue coaxes, his hand moves up my back and curves around the base of my hair, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Want. Feminine, feral want.
From somewhere in the bar, a cheer erupts. We break apart, breathing hard. He’s smiling, blue eyes stormy, dark hair mussed where I had my fingers in it like a woman who forgot she has any sense of self-control.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, not moving.
He licks his bottom lip. “The worst.”
“We’re friends.”
“We can be friends,” he says, and his thumb strokes my jaw in a way that dissolves all my resolve. “But it would be a lot more fun if we did that again.”
My eyes scan his face as my shoulder lifts. “Friends can kiss, right?”
He slowly nods. “Yeah, friends can definitely kiss.”
I glance around us and when I confirm the coast is clear, I rise up and my lips meet his again. Damn it, this man knows how tokiss. It’s slow and deep and hungry. My mind is just a series of chants and cheers.
Go Coach Wells. Go Coach Wells.
Fuck Coach Wells. Fuck Coach Wells.
Shit.
Damn this tequila and damn this beautiful man. My panties are ruined and I can’t catch my breath.
“Katie?”
