Page 64 of Dance of Deception

“Carmine—”

“What are you doing, little dancer?” His voice is low, edged with amusement, but with darkness curling beneath it.

I shudder. “I—I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

His hands don’t stop moving. One slides higher, fingers brushing the thin straps of my gown, teasing the bare skin of my collarbone. It’s unfair how he’s scarcely touching me, barely pressing, yet every single nerve in my body reacts.

I force myself to focus and clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady.

“About the money.”

Carmine’s eyes flicker. His lips curve into a dark grin.

“What money?”

“The—”

I flinch, gasping sharply as he slips his fingers under the strap of my gown and peels it down off my shoulder. My body shudders as he moves to the other strap, and I try to stop him.

Laughable.

With zero effort at all, in a millisecond, he’s pinned my hands behind my back, held in his iron grip. His body presses me harder to the wall, imprisoning me between him and it.

When he reaches for the other strap, I still squirm and fight. But there’s no space to resist. My heart rate spikes as he slips his fingers under the other strap, peeling it down my shoulder until the entire top of my gown hangs dangerously on the small slopes of my breasts, nothing but my pebbled nipples keeping it from baring everything.

“You were saying?” he purrs darkly.

I shiver, my throat bobbing.

“The…the million dollars.”

He chuckles, like the question amuses him.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Thatmoney.”

I stare at him. Waiting.

He leans in, voice dropping just enough to make my skin prickle.

“Popov was going to kill you,” he murmurs. “Or worse. And, spoiler,that was going to happen whether you got him the money or not.”

I swallow hard.

“But now,” Carmine continues, “that isn’t going to happen.”

I stiffen as his fingers idly trace a slow path across my collarbone before starting to trickle down the skin between my breasts. A heated throb pulses in my core as his fingertip hooks into the fabric of my gown.

“Okay, but what does that mean?—”

He tugs with his finger, swiftly pulling the top of my gown off my chest. I gasp sharply as the cool air hits my bare breasts, teasing against my nipples. My arms strain as I try and pull my hands free to cover myself.

That isn’t happening.

All I can do is struggle helplessly as his cold blue eyes drop to my nudity.

I’m no prude. And I’m not bothered by nakedness. I mean, I’ve spent most of my life changing in crowded dressing rooms, theater wings, backstage, and much less private places surrounded by dancers, directors, stagehands, and who even knows else.

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