I give a soft chuckle. “You can’t convince me you’re frightened of anything.”
Her gaze slides over my shoulder. And hardens. “How about murder on the dance floor.”
“Something tells me you’re not referring to Sophie Ellis-Bextor.”
“Who?”
I open my mouth, about to ask how old she is, to complain that “Murder on the Dancefloor” is a classic. What comes out instead is “Your ex is behind me, isn’t he?”
Her expression gives an almost imperceptible flicker, her gaze drifting over my shoulder again. So I press two fingers to her cheek, gently moving her gaze back.
“Eyes on me, darlin’. That fucker doesn’t deserve an ounce of your attention.”
“I’m just imagining his face as Bolognese again.”
I give a soft chuckle and lift her hand to the back of my neck. “Let’s give the bastard a show.” Without giving her time to protest, I close the small space between us, pressing my lips tenderly to her hairline. Her head sits under my chin, and the heat of her body, its softness, just ...fuck.
“Really, really messy Bolognese.” There’s a wobble in her delivery that makes me tighten my grip. “I don’t know why I feel like this. It’s not like I don’t see him most days.”
“Fuck him. He’s not worth the salt of your tears.”
“Oh, I’m done crying,” she says with a heartening vehemence. “It’s just ... all this.” It’s not hard to guess what she’s referring to. The hotel. The day. The felicitations. “He gets all this after the way he treated me. There’s no justice, you know?”
But as I twirl us around, he doesn’t look joyous. Not that I say so. “How about we send him a tinyfuck you?”
“What do you have in mind?” So much suggestion in her tone. So much interest in the brightness of her eyes. She gives a little gasp as my arm brushes her waist, but it’s nothing compared to her expression as I pull her body tight, pressing my fingers to her peach of an arse.
“Try not to look too shocked,” I murmur. “You’re supposed to be used to my hands.”
“It’s not your hands that are shocking.” Her lips clamp together, but the words are already out there. “Please ignore that I said that,” she quickly adds.
I give a soft laugh as pleasure ripples through me. “I don’t think I can. You called me a peacock, and now I feel like one.”
“Is that what you have stuffed down your pants? Oh my good Lord,” she adds in a hushed yet mortified tone. “I shouldnothave chugged both glasses of champagne. It must’ve gone to my head.”
Just like she’s gone to mine.
“A peacock,” I murmur ponderingly. “Well, it’s not fully ... cocked. Just a little interest, let’s say.”
“This is so inappropriate.” But she’s smiling, even if she’s trying not to.
“You started it. But I can finish it,” I offer, deftly twirling us again. “Finish you.”
She blinks as she tries to discern my meaning.
“I have no words,” she says, her lashes still fluttering. “But at least the view is better this way.”
Now that I’m blocking her line of sight, she means. I have that pleasure, and he’s not at all what I expected. Which was a finance nerd, the kind that gets off on spreadsheets and wears an overpriced fleece vest to hide his pigeon chest. He doesn’t fit that stereotype at all. Six feet, at a guess, blond, and my money is on blue eyed, though it’s hard to tell, considering the feckers are narrowed like slits currently.
That’s it, arsewipe. Take a good look at who’s manhandling her now.
“Your man is watching us awful closely for someone who’s just gotten married.”
“He’s not my man. I also don’t care.”
“But he does,” I say, dipping her for good measure, my eyes meeting his as I do.Yeah, fucker, take a good look.
“What are you doing?” Her tone is slightly panicked, though her leg slides against my thigh, her body fully on board.
