I barely manage a nod. Brilliant with his hands.
Jesus Christ.
“Dance with me,” George says, low and direct. It’s not quite a question.
I glance around once. People are watching. Of course they are. Half the room probably knew my mother. For a second theold calculation runs through my head—how much of Eleanor Bradford’s polished world is staring at her son right now.
Then George is standing there, real and waiting, and suddenly none of it matters. He holds out his hand.
The quartet has shifted into something slow and aching. I shake my hand and let out a sigh.
I take his hand.
A small space has cleared on the floor. He puts his hand on my lower back, firm and possessive, fingers splayed wide. The second we connect, the rest of the room disappears.
His palm burns through my shirt. I step in close until my chest presses against his, until I can feel the steady thud of his heart against mine. Months. It’s been months since I’ve been this close to him, and every cell in my body remembers.
George doesn’t dance. But he moves like he does this all the time, guiding me with quiet authority. His other hand finds mine, fingers threading together with a grip that feels both gentlemanly and filthy. Every shift of his hips, every subtle press of his palm on my back, sends heat licking down my spine.
“You can dance,” I say, almost accusing.
“Who says I can’t?” His eyes meet mine. “I just don’t.”
I swallow hard. He’s trying. He’s moving like he belongs here, even though I know he’s never had much reason to learn how places like this work.
I grip his shoulder too tightly. My free hand curls into the fabric of his suit. We’re not even close to scandalous, but it feels obscene—the hard line of his thigh brushing mine, the way his breath ghosts warm against my temple when we turn, the slow roll of his body against mine.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
“How did you even get in here?” I manage.
“Your brother,” he answers simply.
“That motherfucker.”
George’s mouth quirks. His hand slides a fraction lower on my back, fingers pressing firmer, pulling me closer in a way that feels dangerously proprietary for a public dance floor.
“Not so bad,” he murmurs after a moment. “Didn’t know what the fuss was about, being rich. All the fancy rooms and fancy rules. But at the end of the day…people are still just people. Some of them are decent. Some aren’t. Money doesn’t change that part. Just makes the clothes nicer.”
He’s quiet for a second, turning us slowly under the chandelier light.
“Watched you up there tonight. With all of them.” His voice is low, just for me. “Probably never gonna fit in a place like this. Not the way you do.”
He holds me just slightly tighter, like he needs to feel me there while he says it.
“Used to think that meant I had no business being anywhere near it. Anywhere near you.”
A pause, his eyes boring into me.
“Done thinking that.”
He pulls me in tighter, one big hand sliding possessively lower on my back, thumb stroking slow circles along my spine.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” he says, hot against my ear. “Been trying not to stare at you too much.”
The words hit me straight in the chest and between my legs at the same time. I nearly combust on the spot. I have to fight the ridiculous urge to hide my face in his shoulder. I won’t admit how completely he undoes me with something so simple.
The song ends too soon.
