Page 89 of Never Your Girl

“It feels real,” he says, his tone steady. “At least, it looks real from the outside.”

I glance at him, and my defenses slip. “It’s all part of the illusion.”

He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is so gentle, so intimate, it makes my heart stutter.

“I like watching you up there. Everything around me fades away and it feels like you’re dancing just for me.”

My breath catches, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. I find myself leaning into him instead, resting my head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer, and for the first time in a while, I feel like I don’t have to carry everything on my own.

“It’s the same for me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “I forget about everyone else.”

“Would you…” His voice trails off.

“What?”

“Would you dance for me?”

My pulse stutters, a wild, unsteady beat as I meet his gaze. “Here? Now?”

His eyes darken. “Yeah. For me.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, charged with electricity. This is different from the club. There aren’t any lights or a stage. There’s no way to put distance between us. It’s just his bedroom, the soft glow of a lamp, and two years of unfinished business hanging in the air.

It feels dangerous.

“I don’t have music.” But I’m already rising to my feet.

He reaches for his phone. “What do you want?”

“Something slow.” My voice comes out huskier than intended. “Something you can feel.”

He takes a moment to pick a song. It’s something with a deep bass line that vibrates through the floor. I close my eyes and let the rhythm sink into my bones. When I open them again, his gaze is locked on me. The intensity in it is enough to burn the house down.

I start moving, but not like I do at the club. It’s slower, more intimate. My hips sway to the beat as I run my fingers through my hair. There’s no costume to shed, just my T-shirt and leggings. The strangest part is that I feel more exposed than when I’m nearly naked on stage.

“Holland,” he breathes.

The way he says my name makes my skin tingle.

I turn slowly, looking over my shoulder. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, hands gripping his thighs as if he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out.

Longing floods through every inch of me.

“You can touch me,” I whisper, moving closer. “If you want.”

His hands find my hips, pulling me between his legs. I roll my body to the music, and his fingers glide over my skin, holding me in place.

“Pretty sure there’s a no touching rule in place at the club,” he says roughly.

“You’re right,” I agree, reaching back to tangle my fingers in his hair. “There is.”

His forehead rests against my back as the heat of his breath seeps through my shirt. “I’d fucking kill anyone who laid their hands on you.”

The possessiveness of his words stirs something deep in my core, making my stomach flip.

“Good thing Rocco’s there to take care of any problems.” I turn in his arms, still moving to the music. “I don’t really want to visit you in prison.”

His hands slide up my sides as I straddle his lap, still dancing, still keeping that last bit of distance between us. His eyes darken with desire, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my blood boil in a way it never has before.

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