Page 13 of Finding London

She’s no longer dancing, and her eyes are locked with mine. For a moment, she looks shocked, scared almost, but then her open mouth closes, forming a flirty smile. I yank my gaze from hers. I look at anything else and, at the same time, nothing else as my mind races with images of London. My stare betrays me as it finds her once more. This time, she is leaning in, talking to her friend. Her friend nods, and London starts walking with purpose and a huge-ass smile—directly toward me.

Oh, shit.

I find myself moving in her direction—if anything, because I don’t want to confront her in front of my friends. I’d never hear the end of it. I guarantee that London’s behavior will rival any of the crazies of the past. Red-bra-beer girl stories will be replaced with London stories, and if there is anything I don’t want, it is to be reminded of her for the unforeseeable future every time Cooper or Maggie wants a laugh.

We meet halfway and face each other. And though we are surrounded by a crowd of dancing bodies, standing across from London this way feels almost…intimate. I can’t stop my perusal of her, starting at her feet in strappy black heels to her skintight jeans to her equally form-fitting pink halter top to her cleavage that is pushed out on display to her breathtaking face and the way in which she is taking me in with the same amount of yearning.

“Loïc,” she says as her hands splay across my chest.

I swallow, my mouth dry. “London.”

“You remembered my name,” she says with a smirk.

I shrug, my arms hanging loosely at my sides. I concentrate on her face, hoping that mine conveys complete nonchalance. I’m putting in a lot of effort to appear unaffected. But the reality is, I’m not. My heartbeats are uncontrolled, a pounding drum within my chest. My body is betraying me in every way possible with its reaction to London’s touch, and all the focus in the world isn’t going to make a difference.

What is it about her?

I grab her wrists and remove her hands from my chest. “Listen—”

Before I can gather my thoughts, she tilts her face to the side and asks sweetly, “Dance with me?”

I let go of her wrists, and she wraps her hands around my neck, pulling us closer together.

My hands ball into fists against my thighs. “London,” I protest.

She glides one of her hands across my cheek. “It’s just a dance.”

Her touch feels so good, and I have to stop myself from leaning into her hand.

I don’t want this moment with her. I don’t want to feel this way when I’m around her. I don’t want any of it, but for some unknown reason, I’m powerless to stop it.

I could stop it, if I wanted to.Walk away. Just walk away.That’s all it would take.

Instead, my hands wrap around her waist. My body leans into hers. She nuzzles her face against my neck as I rest my cheek against her hair. Closing my eyes, I breathe in. She smells so good.

What am I doing?

I ignore the war raging in my mind between reason and want, and I allow my senses to fully take in this enigma of a woman in my arms. I will allow my brain and all the thoughts that I’m shutting out to have their say in a bit when I force myself to walk away. But, right now, I just want to dance with London more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. It doesn’t make sense, and I’ll rationalize it all later. For once, I’m going to permit my beating heart to win or at least have this small victory because the truth is, it’s long overdue for one.

We move to our own rhythm. I don’t even hear the band anymore. All my senses are fixed on London—the way she feels in my arms, her intoxicating smell, how beautiful she looks, the sound of her content sigh against my chest. We dance together like we’ve done it a million times before, our bodies moving seamlessly against one another. I press my lips together as an overwhelming urge to taste her comes over me, to kiss her…just once.

Wait! No. What is wrong with me?

It’s lust, plain and simple. I’m giving this attraction more value than it’s worth. There’s no connection, nothing special about London. She’s hot, and my body wants to fuck her. End of story.

End. Of. Story.

Yet, for more reasons than I care to admit, I won’t be taking her home tonight. I step back abruptly.Enough.

I grab her shoulders and sharply push her away. “Listen…”

She opens her mouth to interrupt me again.

“Stop,” I say more forcefully than I probably should have.

Her eyes widen in shock.

“I’m sure you’re a nice girl and all,” I say, trying to soften the blow some, “but I’m not interested.”

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