Page 226 of Holding On To Good

She looked ready to run, but she stood her ground, lifted her chin.

A dare.

A promise that she wouldn’t be the one backing down.

His own breath was lodged in his chest, but what the hell did he need with breathing when Verity was there, right there, with her sexy winged eyeliner and glossy pink lips. Her light purple dress that dipped just low enough to grant a hint of cleavage, that flowed over the curve of her hips.

He wanted his hands all over her—cupping her tits and squeezing her ass. He wanted to gather her hair in his fist. To smooth his fingers along her collarbones. Slide his fingertips up her inner thighs.

He wanted. With her, he wanted too much.

He settled for laying his hands on her waist—the most innocent, respectful place he could think of. Her dress was silky, the material warm from her body and his fingers twitched, wanting to curl. To dig into her hips and drag her closer.

But he knew his limits.

Sometimes he was even smart enough to obey them.

So he kept his distance—and a good foot of space between them—while she slowly lifted her arms and laid her hands on his shoulders.

He was shit as a dancer, barely able to do more than shuffle his feet and she followed his lead. They were like two kids at a middle school dance, bodies stiff, movements awkward while the lead singer sang some song about some girl being in his head always.

Fuck. His. Life.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” Verity asked.

“What?”

“The reason for this,” she said, lifting a hand and waving it between them. “Did you lose a bet? Because I can’t think of any other reason why you’d want to dance with me. Since you’re so not interested in me and all.”

He had to bite back a snort. Interested in her? Hadn’t he been worried she’d become an addiction? Now it was more like an obsession. He didn’t want her in his head, but she was there too much of the time. Creeping into his thoughts while he worked. Sliding into his dreams while he slept. Appearing in his fantasies while he jacked off.

“I didn’t lose a bet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “No? So you were… what? Bored? Drunk? Dared to dance with me?”

“Not dared.”

But he had been pushed. Hayden had sat down next to him and commented on how lonely Verity looked. How much it must suck for her to have her brothers scare off every guy who tried to talk to her.

How she needed someone to rescue her.

There he was, playing hero again when he had no right putting on a cape.

Had no right saving this particular girl.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So just bored and drunk?”

He wasn’t drunk—no way would he do anything to mess up Patton’s wedding day, like try and get served.

And he hadn’t been bored since the moment Verity walked into the reception.

“You looked sad,” he said.

Her head snapped back. “What?”

“You looked sad,” he repeated, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, horrified, her entire body stiffening. “You feel sorry for me. This is a pity dance.” Then she tipped her head back. “Seriously?” she asked the ceiling with a glare. “This is low, even for you.”

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