‘I’m so pleased you made it tonight,’ she yells, throwing her arms around me. ‘So happy!’
I’m about to return the sentiment—because drinking and dancing and friends—when her body lurches away. The delight in her eyes is so evident as she realises Rory has his hands on her hips.
‘I’m so happy!’ she yells over her shoulder as he spins her to face him and the pair begin to dance.
The dense crowd keeps me from feeling like I’m dancing alone. Not that I care right now.Because I’m dancing and not thinking. I’m dancing and having fun.And then I spot him at the edge of the dance floor. For a split second, I’m confused—Rory just danced Fin away, so how can he... ?
The unformed thought dissolves immediately.
The darker expression.
The rolled sleeves and vest.
The man who is Kit.
He’s sexy. So hot—hotter than a man has any right to be. Okay, yes, on the surface he looks like my friend’s fiancé, but beyond first glance, he’s so not. Rory’s good looking, but this man? There’s something about him that I just can’t put into words.
Ya. I don’t have the words. I will tomorrow, but for now, I’m going to blame the alcohol for breaking my neurological processing. Or maybe Kit’s hot looks have burned my wiring.I’d be game for being burnt by this man right now.
The song changes seamlessly to something slower, though I don’t leave the dance floor. Instead, I begin to imagine Kit’s hands running over me. Feeding into my hair. Pulling the strands at the nape of my neck to keep me still while his mouth teases me. The images—my desires—are slightly shocking, though no less fun.
Our gazes connect again, the realisation blooming inside me that he seems to be watching me. These don’t appear to be indiscriminate glances across the dance floor, either, because when I face him, he doesn’t look away. I decide to put aside his sexual orientation. I’ll take his looks right now, whatever they mean. Because there is no doubt his eyes are just for me.
His gaze burns where it touches, and my fingers follow that trail. The realisation is so potent it fans out, heating my skin, my pussy seeming to pound almost to the beat of the bass.
My movements change with the pace of the song, becoming more sensuous because I suddenly want to dance—not to forget, but for him. I want his eyes on me like I can remember wanting nothing before this. Sure, I want success—I’ve always wanted to be at the height of my profession. Not to be held in high regard, but to be a great surgeon.The best.This kind of desire is different. It’s the kind of carnality I’ve never experienced. The kind of craving I’ve read about but never understood. I imagine us together, his hands holding mine above my head, his hips pinioning me to the bed. What would it feel like to be held like that? To be possessed body and soul? To be tortured by tease?
I find my hands mirroring my thoughts, my fingers trailing my sides until they’re in the air above my head. The wool of my dress slides against my thighs, moving higher and higher, and no doubt flashing a whole lot of thigh. But I don’t care. I feel sort of untethered. I crave his attention, and for that very reason, I don’t look back at him.
It would be one rejection too many to realise he’s no longer looking at me.
So I lose myself in the music and the flash of strobes, and I dance for him, imagining my own hands are his as I run them across my body and sway my hips. My body commanded by the beat of Kit.
My eyes suddenly spring open when I find hands other than mine on my waist.
‘Hey, beautiful.’ Not the right voice. Not the right face.
The pang of disappointment must reflect in my expression. I mean, this stranger is cute in a blond floppy-haired kind of way, but he’s not who I’m thinking about.He’s all light, and I want the shade.I lift his hands away with a smile and a small shake of my head and move away to the murmuring complaints ofcocktease.
And he might be right, but my mind is on another’s cock, so to speak.
I turn and make my way from the dance floor with a quick wave to Fin to indicate I’m heading to the ladies. I do just that, though head away from the direction of Kit. My face is slightly hot not only from the communal body heat on the dance floor but also because of the ridiculousness that brought unwanted attention to my waist. Now that I’m not dancing, it’s easier to remind myself that, while Kit might enjoy verbally sparring with me, he’s not interested. Maybe he just appreciated my mad moves, or maybe the cute floppy blond was more his thing?
Then it suddenly occurs to me that this could be what the attraction is—why I feel drawn to him beyond his good looks, which anyone can appreciate. Maybe I want what I can’t have because it’s safe. Because it’s never going to happen with him, is it?
I push my way from the bodies at the edge of the dance floor and worm my way through the place packed with people my age.My tribe. The thought makes me snigger. It’s a tribe I’ve never wanted to be a part of until tonight. I walk halfway down the long hallway and push open one door then another, narrowing my eyes against the fluorescent lights in the bathroom.
The ladies’ room is pretty basic—black and white tiles and unframed mirrors—and the lighting is harsh. Against the backdrop of the beat from beyond the doors, toilets flush and water runs. Girls chat, one cries, and another compliments my boots. I pee, wash my hands, and contemplate my lack of makeup against my heated cheeks. I do all this while trying to keep my thoughts from expanding in my head. I can’t help but worry about what will happen when I go back out there. Will Fin and Rory still be dancing? Will I need to make small talk with Kit?God, this is so embarrassing.I inhale deeply and do what I do when faced with stress. I decide to get it over with. To jump right in. So with a quick fluff of my hair, I pull open the outer door and walk... into a wall of dark suit.
‘Dr Honey Bea.’
I can’t muster a response as he covers my hands with his. I appear to be touching his chest again, his broad, firm chest—man, he is cut—though I can’t feel the beat of his heart over the pounding of my own.I make to step away when Kit presses his hands more firmly, flattening mine against his pecs. But that doesn’t stop me from moving—it’s his words that stun me into place.
‘It’s a little too late for that.’
Threading his fingers though mine, he lifts them, tugging me farther down the hallway. My feet feel weighted down, not because I’m reluctant, but because my mind is on delay, and I can’t think of anything to say for wondering what this means.
The lights are dim at the end of the corridor where he stops by a door.
