"Fine," I hear myself say. "One dance."
His smile widens, and he extends his hand. I take it, letting him pull me off the barstool. His palm is rough with calluses, warm and large enough to engulf mine completely. He leads me to the dance floor where just minutes ago he was spinning those other women, and suddenly I'm very aware of how different I am from them. Shorter. Rounder. Less graceful.
But then the music starts, something slow and sultry, and his hands find my hips, and I stop thinking entirely.
"There we go," he murmurs, pulling me close.
Not inappropriately close, but close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him through my clothes.
We start to move, swaying to the rhythm, and holy shit, he knows what he's doing. He guides me effortlessly, his hands firm on my hips, applying gentle pressure to steer me where he wants me to go. It's been so long since I've danced with anyone. Derek hated dancing, always said it was pointless.
"So," the man says, those dark eyes fixed on my face. "You new in town?"
The question again. I tense, ready to shut down any conversation about my life, my past, my spectacular implosion.
"I don't want to talk about that," I say flatly.
He stares at me for a moment, and I brace myself for the pushback. For the wounded male ego. For him to get offended and walk away.
Instead, he nods slowly. "Okay. How about this, this can be a different kind of night for both of us. A night where neither of us reveals anything about ourselves. No names, no histories, no explanations. Just… this."
Fuck.
He knows exactly what to say. Exactly how to make it sound reasonable and tempting and like maybe it's not the worst idea I've ever had. Like maybe losing myself in a stranger for one night is exactly what I need.
I should hate him for it. Should hate how easily he reads me, how smoothly he offers exactly what my broken heart craves. But I don't. Because I might hate men like him, players who know all the right words, but apparently my body doesn't give a shit about my principles.
"Just this," I repeat, and his smile turns warmer.
"Just this," he confirms, and his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me closer.
We dance in silence for a while, and I try not to think about anything except the music and the movement and the solid warmth of his body. But it's impossible not to notice things. The way his thumbs stroke small circles against my hip bones. The way he smells even better up close. The way his chest is solid muscle beneath that soft flannel.
And I'm fucking soaked.
I can feel it, the wetness gathering between my thighs, my body responding to him in a way it hasn't responded to anyone in months. Maybe longer. Because Derek hadn't touched me in two weeks before I caught him. Two weeks of me trying to initiate, of me asking, practically begging, for him to want me, and him always having an excuse. Too tired. Too stressed. Tomorrow, babe.
Now I know why. He was tired from fucking Jessica. Stressed about hiding it. Saving his energy for someone who wasn't me.
The memory makes my throat tight, and I push closer to the stranger, needing the distraction. Needing to feel something other than the humiliation that's been eating me alive.
His breath catches, just slightly, and I realize he can feel my breasts pressing against his chest now. All of me pressed against all of him, barely any space between our bodies.
"That's it," he murmurs, and one of his hands slides from my hip to my ass.
I should stop him. Should step back. Should slap him and storm out like a woman with self-respect would do.
But I don't. Because his hand on my ass feels good. Because having a man touch me like he wants me, really wants me, feels fucking incredible after weeks of rejection. After finding outthat the man I was supposed to marry preferred someone else. Someone thinner. Someone prettier. Someone who wasn't me.
So instead of pulling away, I lean closer. Press my breasts more firmly against him. Let my hips roll in a way that's definitely not innocent.
And I feel it. His bulge, thick and hard, straining against his jeans and pressing into my stomach. He wants me. This stranger, this player, this man who could probably have anyone in this bar, he wants me.
I feel like an idiot for caring. Feel pathetic for letting this mean something when I know it's just physical. Just convenient. But God, it feels good. Feels good to be desired instead of discarded. To be chosen instead of cheated on.
His hand flexes on my ass, squeezing, and a small sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. His eyes darken, pupils dilating, and he leans down until his lips are right next to my ear.
"You feel so fucking good," he whispers, his voice rough. "So soft. So perfect."
