I could worship him. Worship that body. All. Night. Long.
But the crowd. I know it sounds ridiculous, and it only happens for a beat, but it’s half a beat long enough to realise Iamactually staring at him.
I’m staring at James.
And he’s staring at me.
And for the second time tonight, my heart lifts. Only this time, I’m going to see it for what it is.
A gift.
A second chance at a second coming. Though if you want to get technical, I think tonight’s scorecard would start somewhere around a sixth coming.
Sans jacket and with rolled shirtsleeves, he looks ten times sexier than a man has any right to be. And he’s my boss’s husband’s friend? Or something.
Does that matter? I’m not at work right now. And it doesn’t appear to matter to him. He stares at me with such purpose, with a look of such dark intent. I’d know that look anywhere because it’s burned into my memory, along with a little audio that I find myself playing again and again.
A masculine groan.
A whispered hiss.
A dangerous compliment rasped into my ear.
You feel like velvet, every inch of you.
And I remember every glorious inch of him. His broad chest, his skin the colour of caramel, and the sandy dusting of hair that tapered to a point between his legs. How his eyes grew dark as the ladder of his abs had clenched to my touch, the way his throat rippled as I’d taken him in my hand that first time, and how the skin tasted there.
This isn’t the kind of club that plays slow dance tracks, so I’m surprised when something a little sultrier—something dark and tempting—hits the speakers. I slide my hands over my hips as I begin to replay that night, recreating the path of his hands as I slide my own into my hair. I recall how, in the kitchen, he’d held me firmly in place as he’d rained down whisky-flavoured kisses.
His kisses, his way.
I was just along for the ride.
And I’d loved every minute of it.
Our gazes connect once more, the realisation blooming inside that he’s watching me. These aren’t indiscriminate glances across the dance floor, and this isn’t another chance meeting. He’s here. For me. His gaze burns where it touches, almost forcing my fingers to follow the trail. My movements change with the pace of the song because I suddenly want to dance. Not to lose myself, but to dance for him. I want his eyes on me, watching as they did that night, taking their joy from me. I want to feel his need and see it in his gaze like I felt it in his touch.
I want him to want me above all things.
It’s the kind of craving I’ve never experienced, the kind of desire I’ve read about but never understood as I imagine us together that night. The tremble in his arm as he’d held himself above me, his blue eyes all pupil, the light turning the scruff on his cheek to gold. I’m wet, powerfully so, my nipples hard and chafed by the lace of my bra as I lose myself in the music and the flash of the strobes. I’m no longer dancing for me or dancing to lose myself. I’m dancing for him, imagining my hands are his as I run them across my body and sway my hips. My body is no longer at the mercy of the beat but commanded by him.
The track changes again. I barely register it as I make my way through the crowd to him, though my pulse seems to keep time with the beat, pounding pitilessly between my legs.
The flash of strobe lighting makes him look almost demonic as he holds out his hand. I take it anyway, and he pulls me wordlessly to his chest. And then we’re kissing, our bodies aligned, my soft to his hard. Kissing and kissing, and I’m not one for public displays of...
No, not that. This isn’t affection. This is sex without touching—sex while fully clothed. His hand brings mine to his chest, flat against the solid muscle under his shirt. His free hand slides around to the nape of my neck, bringing me closer, intoxicating me with the scent of his woodsy and spicy cologne. And his kisses? Oh, his kisses...
They’re firm and possessive, the kind of kisses that weakens both limbs and knicker elastic. Exactly the kind of kisses he delivered that first night.
But on steroids.
Somehow powerfully enhanced.
But then, I’m not lost in his kiss anymore as he lowers his mouth to my ear and whispers,
‘Come home with me.’
12
