Maybe it’s the way Ryder lightly brushes his hand against my lower back as he steers me through the crowd toward the bar, that makes me tuck in close to him as we push our way through the crowd.
As we saddle up behind some people waiting in line, he leans in, his voice a warm growl in my ear over the pounding bass. “What do you want?”
I suck in a breath and shiver.
“Whiskey sour,” I answer, raising my voice over the din,ignoring the smug glint in his eyes like he knowsexactlywhat the night has in store for me—whathehas in store for me.
Elbowing our way between two groups of girls squealing over tequila shots, we squeeze up close to the bar. Behind me, Ryder plants his hands firmly on either side of the bar, caging me in, and orders our drinks.
And God help me, Ilikeit.
The bartender sets our glasses down as Ryder tosses a bill onto the counter. Handing me my drink, his fingers brush mine, making my stomach flip.
“Drink up, so we can dance.”
I take a sip, and he raises an eyebrow before he downs his glass of whiskey in one shot.
Setting his empty glass on the bar with a thunk, he takes a finger and lifts my glass so I have no choice but to gulp it down or it will end up all over the front of my top.
Shaking off the brain freeze, I slam the glass on the bar. “What the fuck, Ryder?”
“C’mon,” he says, jerking his head toward the dance floor.
Glancing nervously at the writhing bodies, I’m only able to hesitate for a second before Ryder snags my hand and pulls me into the middle of the crowd. The bass beats against my chest and the crowd swallows us whole as lights strobe overhead, heat rolling off the dancing bodies in waves.
Moving like he doesn’t give a damn who’s watching, Ryder dances like heisthe music.
And it’skillingme.
I want to mold my body against his, lose myself in his eyes, and run my hands along the hard planes of his chest. Instead, I force myself to stand back and match his rhythm.
Closing my eyes, I sway my hips and lift my arms, letting the music take over and flow throughmy veins.
When I open them, he’s watching me with so much hunger, I almost trip over my feet.
Tension coils in the air between us. Every brush of his arm, every tilt of his body as it leans against mine, is building a pressure in my chest so deep it almost hurts to breathe.
So, rather than meet his gaze, I turn my back on him and dance.
He moves in, lining his body up against mine. The heat coming off his body soaks through the thin fabric of my top as his scent, dark, rich and intoxicating, assaults my nose.
One wrong move, one inch closer, and I could easily come completely and totally undone.
I suck in a breath and swallow it whole, dancing like my life depends on not turning around and dragging him into the darkest corner of the bar and letting him have his way with me.
An hour slips by in a blur. We take a couple of breaks, but we mostly stick to dancing and drinking.
He buys me a couple of shots, and they burn down my throat, loosening my limbs. I can’t think about anything else except the way his eyes track my every move until he leans in, his voice a low rumble in my ear.
“Stay here. I need to hit the head. You want another drink?”
“Sure.”
My head is dizzy, and my clit throbs a staccato rhythm between my thighs as I watch him disappear into the crowd toward the back.
I’m still catching my breath when a guy with blond, greasy hair slinks up next to me. Wearing a leather jacket that has seen better decades, his breath smells like cheap beer and cigarettes.
“Hey, sexy,” he slurs, leaning in way too close. “Wanna dance?”
