June’s magenta-painted lips curved into a smile, one that said she knew something I didn’t. “You promise?” she asked.
“Cross my heart. Might as well get on with it, right? Because let’s face it, ladies. None of these guys hold a candle to Soren Sinclair.” June’s smile widened. “He makes me crazier than a bessie bug, but he’s got abs meant for shredding cheese.”
Nessa choked on her drink.
“I’m serious,” I told them. “What I wouldn’t give to lick butter off that man’s body.”
“Is that a fact, blondie?”
Hells bells.
Every part of me froze. I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Ladies, how are we doing tonight? The name’s Pink. Jared Pink.”
Oh no.That made two voices I recognized. Which meant Soren wasn’t alone. Which also meant . . .
I swiveled my head, coming face-to-face with half of the Roasters’ starting roster. Pink, Matty, Tucker, Roman, and, of course, the object of my (apparently) dairy-covered fantasies. Pink wasted no time in sidling up to Nessa. That boy was barking up the wrong tree, and I, for one, was looking forward to seeing her knock his confidence down a level or two. Right after I recovered from my embarrassment.
I resisted the urge to cover my face. They’d all heard me; that much was clear. The shit-eating grin on Soren’s face was a dead giveaway. There wasn’t any point in hiding from reality.
“Can I buy you a drink, gorgeous?” Pink asked Nessa.
“I don’t know,” Nessa told him. “Are you old enough to drink?”
Tucker and Roman chuckled. Matty rounded the table, striking up a conversation with June. But all of that blurred into the background when faced with Soren Sinclair.
“Need a refill, blondie?” he asked. “Maybe some butter?”
My cheeks warmed. “Thank you, but no.”
“How about a dance then?”
“I—”
“Clarke.” I turned back to June, who lifted her brows expectedly. “You promised.”
I rolled my eyes, cursing myself and my big mouth. I might be chicken shit, but a promise was a promise.
Soren rested his hand just above my ass, his fingers flirting dangerously with the exposed skin at the base of my spine. From the front, the romper I’d chosen to wear was relativelymodest. A short-sleeved, color-blocked number with a built-in belt that perfectly matched my heels-on-loan from Nessa. The back, however, was a different story. Open, bare, held together by nothing more than a flimsy string at the base of my neck.
It wouldn’t take much for him to untie it. To bare me completely from the waist up. And when I said bare, I meant bare. There was no way to wear a bra with this one. Judging by the Cheshire Catlike smile on Soren’s face, he knew that, too.
“Fine.”
He leaned down until he was close enough for me to smell the minty freshness wafting off his kissable lips. “Sorry?”
“I said, fine. Let’s dance.”
He tightened his hand on my waist and guided me toward the dance floor, deeper and deeper into the throng of sweaty bodies. When we reached the center, he turned me toward him, gently tugging on my belt until I had no choice but to step closer to him. Any closer and I’d be on top of him. Not that that would be a bad thing . . .
Before I could decide what to do next or where to put my hands—because something told me my two years of ballroom dance lessons wouldn’t serve me well this time around—we were moving once again. I gasped when he spun me away from him, then squealed when my back met his front. His ridiculously hard front.
“Okay, blondie?”
At this point, I could barely breathe, so forming coherent words and sentences was out of the question. Instead, I nodded.
He held me just like that, one hand on my hips, the other resting on my stomach, as we began to sway to the beat. I let him take the lead. Our bodies molded together, moving as one. With anybody else, this closeness, this control would’ve been too overwhelming. I’d endured enough control to last a lifetime.But with Soren, I felt safe. Warm, comforted. Like nothing could penetrate the invisible force field surrounding us.
