Page 28 of The Wrong Play

Her lips parted, a little huff of indignation slipping out. “Saved me, huh?”

I grinned. “Definitely. Like the guy inTroy. Except without the heel thing,” I corrected, reaching out to twist a strand of herlong, dark blonde hair between my fingers. Soft. Silky. Fucking perfect. “Just an observation, though. You kind of looked like you were waiting to be found.”

I leaned in again, because at this point, I couldn’t help myself, inhaling the faintest hint of vanilla and something warm and sweet clinging to her skin.

She scoffed, but I caught the flicker of hesitation behind it.

Maybe I wasn’t wrong. Maybe my girlhadbeen waiting to be found.

I let the strand of her hair slip from my fingers, watching the way her breath hitched when my knuckles brushed her collarbone.

Fuck.

“Dance with me.” The words blurted out. I didn’t usually ask girls to dance. I was pretty good at it, and it could be intimidating to mere mortals, obviously. But I had a feeling she could handle it.

She made a face, biting down on her bottom lip like I’d suggested sawing off her left leg instead of rubbing up against me as “Pink Pony Club” blasted. “I don’t dance,” she finally said shyly.

“You do now.”

She looked at my hand, hesitant. But I could see the curiosity. The interest. The way her fingers twitched at her side like she was considering it. I didn’t give her a chance to say no.

I grabbed her hand, pulled her away from the bar, and led her straight to the dance floor.

The second we stepped into the crowd, the bass pulsed through my bones.

Bodies pressed together, moving in time with the music, and I turned to face her. She looked stunning—flushed cheeks, glowing under the neon lights, her hair falling over her shoulder.

She was tense at first, unsure. So I did what I do best.

I took control.

I set my hands on her waist, slow and deliberate, tugging her just close enough for her to feel my body heat. She let out the smallest breath. And then she moved. Not much. Just enough for me to feel her.

I dragged my hands over the curve of her hips, bringing her flush against me, rolling my body into hers, enjoying the gasp that fell from her lips when she felt my dick.

I leaned down, brushing my lips against the shell of her ear. “Relax, babycakes,” I purred. “Just pretend he’s not there.”

“He?” she asked, looking adorably confused. I pressed a little closer so she knew what I was talking about, and her cheeks took on the reddest hue of the night.

Perfection.

Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt, and I felt every breath she took…every tiny movement.

I became obsessed with watching her let herself go, just a little at a time.

The music pulsed, slow and thick, curling through the air like a whispered promise. She moved with me, her body fitting against mine as if she was made for it. She followed my lead, letting me guide her with the firm press of my hands, my touch lingering, teasing as I turned her around.

I slid an arm around her waist, pulling her back against my chest, wondering how it felt like this was where she belonged. My palm splayed over her stomach, holding her there, keeping her exactly where I wanted her. She didn’t resist. Instead, she arched—just enough, just barely—but I felt it.

All of it.

She was so fucking soft. So impossibly perfect against me that my breath came slower, heavier.

I let my lips skim along her jawline, a ghost of a touch, just enough for my breath to dance over her skin. I heard it then—the way her breathing hitched, the barely-there whimper that slipped from her lips. Her fingers curled around my arm, nails digging in just enough to send a pulse of heat straight through me.

She was breathless. Flushed. Mine.

I turned her in my arms, not breaking the contact, not letting her slip even an inch away. Her gaze lifted to mine, pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths.

---