Why is this social so important to him?
His hand is still out, in offer. He nudges it toward me. “I might not have another opportunity before then.”
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
But rather than back up, Alex takes a step forward, into my space. His right arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him. His left hand finds mine.
I put my other hand on his chest and shove. It doesn’t make much difference, save to remind me how firm his pecs are beneath his shirt. “Get your handsoffme.”
“You’re being recalcitrant,” he murmurs, turning us into the first few steps of the most awkward dance in the history of the waltz. I don’t know where to put my feet. I don’t give a fuck about treading on his; I’m trying to keep my balance. My heart is beating faster than it should.
“And you’re being ridiculous,” I retort, still trying to push him away. If it was anyone else, I’d have slapped him and screamed. I’m still considering themerits.
He pulls me closer against him, our bodies touching, and mine responds. He’s never held me like this. It’s not a hug, it’s more controlling. My breath catches, my stomach has dropped somewhere around my knees, and I’m so very aware of everywhere our bodies touch. I have to tilt my face up to keep my eyes on him, and it’s getting harder to maintain my glare. He’s looking down at me, something soft in his eyes. That’s a first, too.
“Alex,” I begin, not sure if I’m angry, offended, or turned on. It comes out croaky, and I clear my throat and try again, going for firm. “I need you to let go of me.”
“It’ll be embarrassing on Friday if you’re this ungainly across the dance floor.”
And damn him, he’s not wrong. Which is to say, he’s all grace and poise. I’m the one tripping over myself, like an ugly duckling. But that’s half because I’m fighting him. On a whim, I relax, listening to the music and letting him lead me. The next six steps flow easily, his hand on my back guiding me where he wants me to be. It’s obvious he knows what he’s doing.
I shouldn’t be feeling what I’m feeling. I shouldn’t let him even have his hands on me. But this? Pressed together like this?Movinglike this? It’s the closest we’ve come to romance since… well, since he proposed.
My heart is fluttering. My palm’s damp where he grips it. My nipples are so hard they ache… can he feel them, pressed to his chest?
Say something.
“I didn’t know you could dance.” Why the hell did I saythat?
“My parents insisted I learned. A waste of time.”
And that’s the Alex I know, right back where he’s always been. My moment; his waste of time.
I step away, and finally he doesn’t try to stop me. Much-needed space appears between us. He’s completely unruffled, suit perfect, shirt unwrinkled, gaze steady. I’m trying to catch my breath, and it wasn’t the exertion. We’ve barely managed a dozen bars.
I turn walk to the kitchen counter, flicking on the kettle even though what I really want is a vodka. And I don’t drink vodka.
“If you’re done with this farce, you can leave.” I keep my back to him.
“It’s not what I’d call practice, but you do show promise.” Behind me, he walks across the room. Hopefully to get his coat. “I’ll see you in a week, then.”
“Which part of ‘I’m not coming’ isn’t clear?”
“The part where your heart races when you’re in my arms.”
Arrogant. Condescending.Dick.
“Get out, Alex.”
He gives a soft chuckle, walks through the apartment, and a moment later the door closes behind him.
Only then do I turn around. Take a breath.Unclench my fists and see the half-moon marks on my palms.
I could ask myself, yet again, why it took me so long to leave him.
But the truth is, he’s right. My heart was racing. It still is.
Why did it take me so long to leave?
