Page 44 of Love Me Tomorrow

“You practically cried the other day.” When I stare at her blankly, she tacks on, “When I . . .” She points to my crotch. “Nailed you by accident at the office.”

My eyes narrow. “I didn’t cry.”

“You did, just a smidge.” She holds up her hand, her finger and thumb less than an inch apart. “Which Itotallyunderstand. Not that I have first-hand experience because, you know, womanhood and all that jazz. But I can only imagine how much it must have hurt, and—Owen.Owen. What are you doing?”

“Dancin’.”

And then I sweep her into my arms and out onto the dance floor.

14

Savannah

Is it possible for a man to deliver an orgasm when he hasn’t even stripped me naked yet?

Because that’s what we’re working with here, ladies and gents. Owen Harvey feels like perfection. Rock-hard chest. Big hands drifting down my back. Thick, muscular thighs that slip between mine as he spins me around the floor. Like I said, pure perfection, even if he’s not particularly adept at—

“Ow.”

Panic dashes across his features. “Shit.Shit.”

Toe smarting from the weight of his massive foot—seriously, I think he crushed a bone or two—I fight off a wince.

When Owen wrapped an arm around my waist and led me to the dance floor, I’d expected greatness. A smooth, seductive sway that made my heart pound fast and my core ache. Owen Harveylookslike the sort of guy who’d be a dancing prodigy. He moves with a panther-like confidence, like a man who knowsexactlywhat to do with a woman in his arms.

And maybe he does—between the sheets—but when it comes the moreverticaltype of dancing, Owen is . . . Well, I’m pretty sure the potted plant in my office has more rhythm than the man currently trotting on my feet.

I scoot my heel back at the last second, effectively tipping our combined balance to the right. “In case you were wondering, dancing is not like riding a bike. How long has it been?”

Looking flustered, Owen grunts, “Does it really matter?”

Probably not. Practice may make perfect, but it can’t fix the unfixable.

And Owen’s sense of rhythm? It islonggone, if it ever existed. I give a moment of silence for women’s feet all over the world, my own included.

Wanting to brighten that dour look on his face, I poke him in the side. “Just trying to see if you’re out of practice.”

“You’re trying to lead.” His mouth flattens in disgruntlement. “That’s the problem.”

I grin. “Actually, I think the problem is that you have two left feet. We’re supposed to be swaying.”

He frowns, as though the sounds of the John Legend cover playing personally offends him. “I only know how to dance zydeco.”

Do not laugh, do not laugh, do not—

I suck in a sharp breath when his foot lands on mine again. “Owen,” I gasp, both from the way he enthusiastically spins me around and also, because,dear God, the pain, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re about to do permanent damage.”

“I’m not that bad, Rose.”

As if the universe is all too pleased to prove him wrong, there’s a small shriek off to my right when Owen turns us a little too sharply. My dress catches under my high heels, and I teeter, hovering between that moment of safety and oblivion. Right before I go down, I spot a woman limping away on the arm of her partner, and then my vision is swallowed by all things Owen Harvey.

His arm securing me to him like a band across my back, my nose grazing the lapel of his tuxedo, my flailing hand accidentally brushing his cummerbund.

My heart skips a beat.

There’s no doubt about it: if we keep up with this, we’re going to leave a trail of injured partygoers behind us.

I smooth a hand up Owen’s chest. The thick strands of his hair tickle the back of my fingers as I cup the nape of his neck. “Let me lead.”

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