Page 25 of Dance of Deception

I should be fighting. I should be screaming. Instead, my breath stutters and my back arches slightly, pressing into him for just a second before I catch myself.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“I like the fight in you,” he murmurs, his breath warm near my ear.

Too warm. Too inviting. The overwhelmingly masculine scent of him—leather, tangerine, rosewood—crushes my senses, rendering me helpless in his grasp.

“But I'm afraid you’re out of moves, little dancer.”

I swallow hard, my heart slamming against my ribs.

His fingers skate down my arm, then my ribs, lingering at the curve of my waist.

A warning. A preamble.

I should say something. Pull away.

I don’t.

Because I’m breathless. Heat is pooling low in my stomach, twisting tight.

His lips hover so close to my skin that I can feel the warmth of them, the phantom trace of a breath that never quite touches me.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice edged with dark satisfaction.

I suck in a sharp breath, fingers clenching at nothing.

He chuckles, dark and knowing, like he’s peeling back my layers and prying his way into every secret black thought I have.

“Not because you’reafraid, though.”

His fingers slide lower, slowly enough that I could stop him, push away from him, but I don’t.

And he sees it.

His fingers pinch the fabric of my gold silk dress. He slowly tugs, drawing it tighter, pulling the hem up my bare thighs and sending shivers over my skin. My nipples are already straining hard, pebbled against the delicate, almost translucent material. As the gown shifts electrically against me, I can feel a vicious throb tingle through every nerve ending, making my thighs shake.

“There it is,” he breathes.

I bite my lip to keep from making a sound, but he notices it.

The moment I break.

A low, predatory chuckle rumbles beneath his mask. “I wonder if you’ll ever forgive yourself for liking it.”

I shudder violently.

“I—Idon't?—”

“We've already established what a terrible liar you are,” he growls darkly. “So let’s try this.”

I gasp sharply as he yanks my dress even higher, so much that it’s barely covering the black lace of my panties.

“I’m going to put my hand between your legs,” The Hound murmurs. “If your little panties are dry, and if you recoil from my touch, you’re free to go.”

My pulse thickens like syrup in my veins, a chill clawing its way down my spine.

“But if I find you as messy and wet for me as I know I’m going to?—”

---