Page 13 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 2

He sits back in his chair, his hand leaving my thigh. He motions out to the dance floor and says, “But you go ahead.”

“I’m not going to dance without you,” I say.

“I want you to,” he says. “Go on. The dance floor is crowded.”

I look at the dance floor and it is pretty crowded. Maybe I could disappear into it, work out some of the jitters in my body courtesy of Weston. I’m having such an amazing evening that I go against instinct—who dances alone?—and decide to do it.

“Fine,” I say, tossing down my napkin. Weston looks slightly surprised too. “I’ll go. You sit here and be boring. And old,” I add, and he laughs.

I tug down my skirt and go to the small square of parquet. I face the band and start slow, feeling the music in my bones. People around me—all couples—are laughing and moving together and alone, and it’s all one big energy ball. Once I let my inhibitions go, realizing that no one is watching me, I really get into it. The band is great, filling the air with brassy sounds and a little bit of funk. Before I know it I’ve worked up a little sweat, and only then do I turn to look at Weston.

His arm is draped over my empty chair, his glass of Scotch resting on his knee as he watches me—closely, and with a look of such fascination you’d think I was performing surgery. I turn my back to him, mostly because now I’m embarrassed, but when I look over my shoulder his eyes haven’t left me.

“Come on,” I mouth, motioning for him to join me, but he shakes his head no. I pout again and turn my back on him.

When the band slows it down and everyone couples up, I turn back toward our table, but I’m suddenly gathered up in Weston’s arms—he’s here.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“And beautifully.”

He holds me so close, his hand low on my waist—basically on my ass but I love it. He holds my hand in his against his chest, and we move together to the music. It all falls away. It’s like there is nothing, not even music, only Weston and his arms that hold me so close and sure. My forehead is against his cheek, his breath light on my skin. I close my eyes and memorize the length of his fingers, the solid mass of his back and all the muscles that I just know lay beneath the lush fabric of his jacket.

Weston shifts, and I look up at him. The hard lines of his jaw and the softness of his lips draw me in—I need to kiss him. But Weston bypasses my lips and goes for my ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, and I nod yes. “If there’s anyplace you don’t want to go, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Home,” I say. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Then you won’t,” he says. He takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. He drops three twenties at our table—more than enough for our two drinks and piece of cake—and leads me out the door.

Like I said, where he goes, I’m willing to follow.

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