Page 260 of The Billionaires

“I had a feeling you might enjoy dancing to it.” And right now, I have a feeling her plump, juicy lips would be very fun to nibble on.

“Right.” She looks around at a few people who are already with us on the dance floor. “Shall we?”

Fuck. Between the lip biting and us getting this close, Yoda’s lightsaber is extending. Then again, we must be seen as a couple, and dancing speaks volumes.

I take her hands in mine and begin waltzing, but I keep a distance to make sure she doesn’t feel the effect that she’s having on me.

The next song is faster, so we’re dancing apart, and I get to watch her sway her hips as her perfect round breasts bob up and down to the music—in other words, not an improvement over being too close as far as inappropriate thoughts and urges go.

By song five, it’s official.

If I keep dancing with Jane, my balls will resemble a blue robin’s eggs.

CHAPTER 21

JANE

I don’t believe that the Spanish fly is an aphrodisiac that turns women into nymphomaniacs, but if it were, it would feel a lot like the way dancing with Adrian makes me feel. I’m not sure if it’s the closeness, his bespoke suit, or the intensity in his silver eyes, but my glasses keep fogging up, as well as my panties. Relatedly, he moves with such rhythm and precision that he can add “dancer” to his already-long list of things he’s amazing at.

Miss Miller believes that dancing in general—and the waltz in particular—isn’t something that an unmarried lady should indulge in. Nor should a lady dance with the same gentleman so many times in a row. Nor?—

The music stops. I suppress my crushing disappointment. Turns out, I’m one of those girls who could dance the whole night away—who knew?

“People are about to pledge their donations,” Adrian explains. “Lots of showing-off is about to ensue.”

I nod knowingly. “That means you have to be there.”

He grins. “Actually, I already donated online.”

“I guess when you’re rich enough and everyone knows it, you don’t need to publicly flaunt your wealth. You’ve got nothing to prove.”

His grin widens. “Don’t let the other members of the one percent hear you—you might start a new trend.”

Why is my chest feeling so light? “This stays between us,” I say conspiratorially. “What should we do now?”

Example: go to some club to dance.

“Want to talk in the lounge area?” He extends his arm to me.

Since I’m not brave enough to push for more dancing, I accept his arm, and we promenade to the area in question where a waiter tempts us with a tray of champagne.

Adrian grabs a drink, so I follow his lead.

“What do you think of the event so far?” Adrian asks.

I sip the champagne—and it’s divine, of course. “In my favorite books, they would call it ‘the squeeze of the season.’”

He chuckles. “That sounds like we’re talking about orange juice.”

I take another sip of champagne and shock myself by asking, “So what’s the deal with you and Sydney?”

Why not marry her for real? She’s attractive and rich, and only slightly bitchy.

Adrian blows out a breath. “She and I went to prep school together—insert joke about entitled rich kids here.”

I snort. “If anyone makes fun of prep schools, it’s because they’re jealous they couldn’t get their kids into them, or themselves. That or they watched too much Gossip Girl.”

“Right,” he says. “Sydney was one of the mean girls back in school, which I found abhorrent back then—and my opinion on it only worsened over the years. We were both popular kids, so she decided that she wanted me as a feather in her cap, but I wasn’t interested so she dropped the pursuit.” He sighs. “Cut to about a year ago when I was in a phase of my life when I partied too much. I was at a club on molly—the drug, not a woman—and bumped into Sydney. It started off as us asking each other about what happened to so-and-so from our school days, and then the rest played out like a ‘Just Say No’ ad: I fucked a woman I despise, got her pregnant, and here we are.”

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