by Alam, Donna
Stepping onto the dance floor is like dipping into a warm sea, being enveloped by a current and allowing it to carry you. I’m cosseted by the crowd, protected from feeling like a fool for dancing on my own because we’re all alone to some degree. Alone with the beat.
Despite what science says, dancing isn’t always linked to sex.
Except when it is.
Except when you’re thinking about the man with the peacock blue eyes, thinking about how much you wanted to climb across the table and make him kiss you, even just to make him shut his face before he tells any more lies.
Think of the handsome devil, and he shall appear? Not likely. Not the way my day is going. More like think of the devil, and your mind will play tricks on you, conjuring him up at the edge of the dance floor, all high cheekbones and taunting gaze.
It’s ridiculous. He’s not here. And neither is his doppelganger. It’s just strobe lighting and wishful thinking. He’s far too sophisticated to be in a place like this. Sticky floors and overpriced, watered-down drinks, flashing lights, and house music.
And even if he was, he made it clear he thinks I’m a silly little girl. We’ll fuck him.
Please.
Because I can feel his eyes on me, his gaze almost a physical thing.
Ridiculous. I find I’m smiling to myself. Talk about wishful thinking.
But then something happens almost cosmically. Don’t laugh, it’s true—the mass of dancers suddenly parts like the Red Sea. But he’s not Moses, and there’s nothing Old Testament about him, even if, given half a chance, I could go to hell for the sin of idolatry.
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 I am actually 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
James
I feel more than hear her acquiesce, that one word just a whisper of sweet breath across my cheek. I take her hand in mine and lead her out of the madness, out of the noise and the heat, and away from the vibrating floor covered in spilled drinks. Then we’re outside, and it’s a little like being deaf for a moment. At least until other sounds begin to register. The low hum of a car rolling by and the faint sound of a curse yelled in the distance. Shrieks of displeasure from a gaggle of drunken girls refused admittance.
‘This way.’ Miranda’s hand still in mine, she follows as I trace my way back to where I’d abandoned the car. Her heels tap against the pavement, my heart keeping time with the noise.
I click the key fob, and the rear lights briefly light the black road.
‘I see you’ve borrowed Batman’s car,’ she murmurs with a small smile.
‘He let me borrow it for the night. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve promised to send him a photo of your underwear in return.’ Her smile deepens as I reach for the door handle to open it for her. ‘He’s an absolute pervert. What do you think the mask is for?’
‘Wait. One minute.’ She inhales deeply, her gaze on the back of her hand where it lies against my chest, her lashes dark half-moons against the cheeks. ‘Heather said you arrived with Beckett earlier.’
‘I wasn’t there for speed dating.’
‘Did she send you after me?’
I nod. ‘She was worried. I think she assumed I wouldn’t mention your behaviour to either Olivia or Beckett.’
‘And was she right?’ she asks carefully. Her teeth begin to worry at her bottom lip as though she’s trying to restrain herself from speaking.
‘She was,’ I reply softly as I use my thumb to release her bottom lip.
‘Poor Heather.’ Her answer is expelled on a relieved-sounding sigh.
‘She’s a good friend.’
‘She’s more than a friend. She’s family.’
‘Good friendships feel like that sometimes, don’t they?’
‘No, I mean she real
ly is family. She’s my cousin.’
‘I’m pleased you have someone who cares for you. But you should know I didn’t follow you for her.’ Her gaze is full of uncertainty before it skitters away. ‘I needed to know you were okay.’
‘Please don’t ask me why I’m like this,’ she whispers.
‘It’s your business.’ For now, at least.
She’s clearly no longer drunk, but that’s not why I followed her. I’m not some white knight on a gleaming charger. I’m just a man interested in an intriguing girl.
‘How do you know Beckett?’ Her tone is deliberately even, but I hear the caution anyway.
‘We’ve been friends for years. We met at university. Why do you ask?’
Her expression firms quite suddenly, even if she isn’t looking at me. ‘Because I work for his wife. I can’t have any complications. While I might look like a fuckup who is coming apart at the seams, I’m bloody good at my job, and I’d like to keep it.’
‘Miranda.’ I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at me. ‘We all have bad days. I’m the last person on earth who’d judge you.’
‘You seemed plenty judgey earlier on.’
‘I think you’ll find you weren’t exactly wonderful company yourself.’
‘Point taken.’ Her gaze dips from mine for a beat, her next words almost a dare. ‘I thought you were being horrible because I slept with you. I mean, I don’t even know you.’
‘What kind of arse would I be to criticise you for something I’d like to repeat?’ As she releases a breath, I add, ‘I find I can’t, however, be so kind when it comes to the fact you got stuck in a dog door.’
‘It could’ve happened to anyone,’ she says, struggling to repress her smile.
‘I’m pleased it happened to you.’ I press my lips against hers for the briefest of moments, her hand on my chest halting me.
‘Tonight, it has to be one-off. It’s something I won’t repeat.’
‘Like last time?’ A smile tugs at my lips, but she doesn’t return it. ‘You know, that morning, I didn’t run out and leave you. I got caught up on a work call.’ Her expression turns from cautious to unimpressed. ‘It’s true. The pesky people in Tokyo seem to keep their own times. The world doesn’t revolve around jolly old British Standard Time.’
‘So you were on the phone?’
‘There’s no need to sound so dubious. I also had an elderly relative to look after. I needed to go back to make sure they were okay.’
‘Do I look stupid?’ She jerks her head, her hand suddenly on her cocked hip. ‘I must look dumb if you expect me to believe—’
‘Here, let me prove it to you.’ I pull my phone from my pocket, unlock the screen, then show her the photograph I took the day before I found her stuck in the dog door. In it, I’m shirtless and sitting on the grass in the garden, wearing just shorts. I’d worked out. A little yoga in the sunshine is good for the soul. Rufus sits between my legs, and I have my arm around him, dangling The Times newspaper in front, folded to show the date. It was meant to be a humorous proof of life sent to my father who was fretting over leaving his beloved pet. Or perhaps a reflection of his lack of confidence in my ability to look after the dog properly.
Miranda takes the phone from my hand, tilting it under the pool of streetlight to see it better, I suppose.
‘If you send this to an elderly aunt, you’d better be prepared for a stroke.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘What?’ Her gaze flicks upward to mine.
‘You promise you’ll stroke me?’
‘You’re a nightmare,’ she retorts, pushing the phone back at me. ‘I don’t believe you had any elderly anyone to look after. You’re just making excuses for being a prick.’
‘You’re looking at my elderly relative. He’s the blonder of the two; the hairier one.’ I turn the phone back to her briefly before examining it again myself. ‘Granted, I look like I could do with a shave, too. But Rufus is the nearest thing I have to a brother, at least in my father’s eyes. I’m also certain he’s the favourite.’
‘The dog?’
‘You don’t have the monopoly on pet-sitting, you know.’ I quirk a brow in an inciting fashion. ‘What do you think the dog door was for?’
Whether she suddenly believes me, thinks I’m ridiculous, or just wants to shut me up, I find her fists curled in my shirt as she tips onto her toes to press her mouth against mine.
As a way to silence me, it’s effective. As a way to avoid a public indecency charge, not so much, as my other hand find her hips and slide to her round arse to I pull her against my aching cock.
Was that her moan or mine?
‘I want you.’ Her, that was definitely her whisper as she feeds her hands around my neck.
My fingers are on her arse, tight and unforgiving, squeezing and kneading as I pull us closer—impossibly close for two people still fully clothed—my hips working almost of their own accord.
‘If you don’t stop rubbing yourself against me, you’ll get me right here against the car.’ As though I’d just delivered an invitation, she feeds her hand between us, placing her palm flat on my swollen cock. ‘Fuck.’
My response is more rough gasp than word as I tear my mouth from hers and rest my forehead against her neck. ‘We shouldn’t, not here, but I want you. I want to fuck you so hard they’ll hear your cries in the club. Fuck you so hard you’ll feel me all weekend.’
‘My,’ she purrs, ‘what a dirty mouth you have.’
‘All the better to eat you with. Is that the response you were waiting for?’ Despite my best intentions, I appear to have angled myself to mostly shield her from view as my fingers slip under the hem of her dress.
‘Oh.’ Her exhalation is a soft sigh, those caramel eyes blink languidly as her fingers move to the zipper of my pants.
‘Here?’ The word sounds rusty as though my voice has been long unused. As I wait for her answer, I trail my index finger up the inside of her thigh. I try to keep my movements on the right side of an R rating. R for rub, ride, and release. All things I’m aching for as her tongue darts out to wet her kiss-swollen lips, her teeth dragging against them as though she’s still considering the answer to my question.
But I can’t afford to wait, cutting off her answer with a kiss because hearing it could start something that would be finished to neither of our satisfactions. The Vanquish doesn’t have a back seat or the kind of space I need for the plans I have for her. Not that this stops her hand from sliding through my open zipper.
‘Fuck.’
My body bows forward with the curse, my forehead on her shoulder as I breathe through the rush. The last time a girl touched my cock al fresco? Fuck, I can barely remember my name, never mind that bit of information.
‘Was that an invitation?’ Her tone is dark and velvety, and as I pull back, her expression is one of triumph. But I don’t answer. I can’t because she has her hand on my cock, her thumb stroking the head. The place where every single one of my nerve endings seems to have decided to congregate.
Goodbye language skills, hello dress over your head.
Our mouths fuse once more, and though I don’t hear the car approaching, a rough yell of encouragement draws up my head. I pull my hand from its path to her underwear because this is the kind of fuckwitted audience neither of us needs.
‘It wasn’t an invitation.’ I clear my throat and will away the action in my pants as I slide my hand down her hip, ostensibly to straighten her dress. In reality, it’s because I can’t keep my hands to myself. ‘It was a promise.’
* * *
She’s almost silent in the car on the way home, which is unexpected. I watch her from the corner of my eye, the streetlights washing her with light only to steal it away again. It might be late, but London’s never really dark, never really quiet. If you listen hard enough, there will always be the sounds of tyres on the road or the wail of sirens in the distance somewhere.
But Miranda sits quietly
. There isn’t the suggestion of her earlier snark or her haughty manner, which I think comes from a fear of being judged, a manner she’s worn tonight as her defence. A defence I’ll enjoy taking down inch by slow inch until she’s raw and exposed and so desperate, she’ll never look at me with those thoughts again.
At the back of my house, the garage door opens slowly as we wait on the driveway.
‘I thought you lived in St Johns wood?’
‘No, I told you, I was pet-sitting.’
‘Be serious.’
‘That’s my father’s house. My childhood home.’
I pull in and shut off the engine, but she’s out of the car before I can get to her side to open the door.
‘Nice parking.’ She presses the door closed. This is one of the few houses in the area that has a garage. A heritage listed building; it has such a narrow footprint the space is pretty limited. Especially when you take in the fact that there are two cars in here along with a motorbike. From the front elevation, this house is just a narrow mid terrace, but to those in the know, this is a place that won’t leave you a great deal of change from thirty million pounds. Belgravia happens to be a rather exclusive enclave of London.
‘Thank you.’ I close my own door with a quiet thunk. ‘I’m sure you remember just how adept I am at fitting large things in tight spaces.’
‘Oh, my God!’ She giggles. ‘You are so . . . ’
‘Hard.’ I take her hand in mine and press her palm against my cock, arching into it. ‘I think that’s the word you’re looking for. What are you going to do about it?’ Her expression softens, her pink lips falling open as she inhales softly. ‘You shouldn’t look at me like that,’ I whisper, bending to ghost my lips over hers. ‘After the trouble you’ve put me through tonight, I might just find something to fill that pretty mouth with.’
As though in answer, her fingers tighten around my girth.
