Page 166 of Damsel in Disguise

Yet no sign of him.

My grip strangles around the phone as I push through the crowd, weaving between strangers and muttering apologies every time a shoulder clips mine.

I don’t even look at the people I’m apologizing to—my eyes are too busy searching for him.

Somewhere through the receiver, he hears every single one. And every time he does, he chuckles softly with dripping amusement.

I’m sure he never imagined to see a Keinston apologize. And here I am… doing it on repeat.

The velvety sound slides through the line and settles somewhere deep beneath my ribs, sending a swarm of butterflies through my stomach. Goosebumps chase across my skin despite the heat packed inside Velmourne Club.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve replayed his voice through old lectures, interviews, and videos.

Yet this is entirely different.

He sounds almost tangible tonight, wrapping around my senses until I find myself gnawing on my bottom lip from the growing frustration.

I could listen to his voice like this for hours.

Especially this version of it. Warm. Amused. Dangerously soft. Assuming, of course, he really is drunk.

“How does it feel to be the one being watched, little kitty?”

The sweet scent of red wine washes over my skin as the words are murmured directly into my ear, nearly lost beneath the pounding bass and the chaos of the crowd.

A gasp escapes me. I whirl around too quickly and collide straight into a solid wall of muscle.

His hands immediately find my waist, steadying me before I can make a fool of myself. My palms flatten instinctively against his broad chest. The firm heat of his body bleeds through the crisp black fabric beneath my fingertips.

He wasn’t lying. He was, quite literally, behind me.

Normally, the ankle boots I’m wearing tonight do grants me extra inches, but they’re doing me absolutely no favors right now. I’m still forced to crane my neck up to look into his eyes.

And God. The sight of him nearly steals my breath away.

No glasses.

No blazer.

No carefully maintained professor façade.

Several buttons of his black dress shirt have been left undone, exposing the strong column of his throat and a glimpse of pale skin beneath. His hair is a total mess.

And those ocean-blue eyes are rimmed red, confirming what I’d been suspecting—drunk. Or at least tipsy enough for the edges of his control to blur.

The contrast between us is almost absurd.

I’m dressed entirely in white—a fluffy mini skirt paired with a sweetheart-neckline crop top, the short puffy sleeves making the outfit look softer than I usually prefer. Even my boots are white. The half-updo hair is adding more to it.

Meanwhile, every inch of him is dressed in black, starting from his shirt down to his shoes.

From an outsider’s perspective, I probably look exactly like a damsel caught in the Devil’s grasp.

The thought sends an embarrassing flutter through my stomach.

Slowly, his hands slide lower. Not enough to be inappropriate, yet. Just enough to make me hyperaware.

His fingers settle along the delicate flare of my hips, the grip firm and possessive as they draw me closer until his body presses firm against mine.