Page 5 of Dance with the Devil

I love this song. It’s electric, and though I’m trained in ballet, I’d taken every single type of dance class offered in my youth. Even if I didn’t, dancing can be instinctive. Your body knows what to do, and without any inhibitions or care, you just let yourself do it.

This is a solo, not a duo, and I turn away whenever someone tries to join in. Christopher told me to be careful, and maybe he’s just a bug in my ear, but tonight is about letting loose. Being free. It isn’t often that I’m allowed out of my prison on the third floor of the manor, and almost never that I can leave without Damien there to watch over me.

I stop paying attention to everything around me. It’s just the music. It’s just the dance. What begins as a sway and a bop becomes a little more theatrical until, as the music slows just before it crashes into a new beat, I’m twirling in the middle of the dance floor.

It was a triple pirouette. Nothing elaborate, even if it’s out of place in a mafia-owned nightclub, but sometimes twenty yearsof training takes over and I mix ballet in with other types of dance.

I’m not trying to show-off. In fact, I’m in my own little world as I throw one arm up over my head, grasping the crook of my elbow with my other hand, shaking my hips in time to the music. I take a step with my left foot, turning so that I can do a quick check in on Christopher’s progress with the gorgeous waitress when I notice that someone is watchingme.

I grew up on a stage. If the eyes of the crowd aren’t on me while I’m performing, I’m doing something wrong. I’m used to it—but when I catch his stare, I do something Ineverdo.

I lose my footing and stumble.

It’s not my fault. Not really. I stopped dancing as I took him in, but another couple behind me kept moving. One of them bumped into my back, and though I right myself immediately, regaining my balance, the stumble brings me even closer to the man who was watching me dance.

And, oh, what a man.

He’s about my age, or maybe it’s just his pretty face that makes him seem younger. Because, yeah, he’spretty. Not in a girlish way, though. His features are undeniably masculine, with a chiseled jaw, full lips, and a pair of cheekbones so sharp, they remind me of blades. His hair is as dark as his eyes, and it’s cut longer than most men I know. Dragonflies all seem to have the same high and tight haircut that Damien favors. This guy looks like he once wore his hair long, but decided for a change. The front pieces are carelessly tousled, with the back a little shaggy. It’s styled perfectly to suit him, and I find him incredibly attractive.

And that’s just his face.

Beneath the neon of the Playground, his tanned skin is enticing, and that’s just counting the parts of it I can see. Evendressed, it’s clear that he is covered in tattoos. The only parts that aren’t are his face itself and his hands.

I know I’m staring, but now it’s his neck that fascinates me. Up the sides of his neck and covering the hollow of his throat, all I see are flames created from ink.

Holy shit, that’s cool.

I’m staring, but so is he. I figure that gives me license to gobble him up with my gaze a little longer.

He has a can in one unmarred hand; I recognize it as an energy drink brand that many dancers in my local company guzzle for the high amount of caffeine in it. He’s holding his phone in the other hand. I get the vibe he just picked up a drink from the bar and was cutting his way through the floor to head out. The door is behind me, and he has on a weathered leather jacket over a plain black t-shirt that’s tight enough to highlight the muscles on his chest.

In his mass of beautiful hair, he has a stick pen tucked behind his ear. Palming his phone, he reaches up, grabbing the pen between his pointer finger and his thumb.

And then he says the last thing I ever expected he would:

“Dance for me.”

This stranger’s voice is a deliciously deep grumble. To be honest, I’m almost so shocked that he’s speaking to me, I barely make out what it is that he said.

When I think I did, I ask, “You want to dance?”

Christopher told me not to, but Christopher is busy with Jessie. And even if it is just one dance, I have this strange feeling like I’ll regret it if I say no.

And then he does.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I want you to dance for me.”

Oh. I must have misheard him then. Fair enough. It’s loud, and I’m distracted.

Hm.

Dance for him? That’s not weird, is it? Considering what the girls upstairs do for money, having this beautiful stranger ask me to dance for him could be intriguing—or he could be a perv.

I really hope he’s not a perv.

I also don’t normally like people telling me what to do. I get enough of that in my real life. From demanding dance teachers to my controlling older brother, and even Christopher, it bothers me when I don’t get to choose what to do. Most everyone who knows me figures that out before long before letting me do what I want.

But this guy… it’s a good thing I’ll never see him again because it would be a bad idea to set a precedent, letting him think that I’m the type of woman to simply obey, and yet…

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