Page 57 of Roses in Summer

The surprise on her face was comical, especially since she was at the restaurant where I work. I’m not sure why she came here tonight, whether it was a planned or spontaneous outing, but I can’t complain, not when her hand is in mine, and we’re walking together toward the dance floor.

We weave through people, their bodies moving to a remix of The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be” before settling for a small square near the edge of the dance floor, farthest from the bar.

Turning around, I pull Seraphina into me, bringing our joined hands up to my neck. I don’t hold back my sigh when her hand presses against my tattooed skin; it feels indecent to have her body against mine, her touch on my skin. She shifts, her stomach inadvertently rubbing against my pelvis, and my sigh turns into a groan, my dick hardening at the innocent movement.

“Fuck.” Removing my fingers from her hand, I let it drop just before I grasp her hips and spin her around, placing her back to my front.

I’d rather stare at her face, but I know that if I spend too much time lost in her eyes, I will lose what little resolve I have.

Bending down, I release her left hip and let my hand trail up her arm to gather the thick hair blocking her face. Grabbing the strands, I bunch them and pull them over her shoulder, letting her hair rub against my chest and stomach.

Her tan, unmarred neck is exposed, and I don’t resist the urge to lightly circle it with my free hand. I feel her swallow, her pulse turning from fast to erratic. Leaning over, I speak into her ear, letting my tongue flick the skin where her jaw and earlobe connect. “Dance for me, ciern.”

Like a windup toy whose string has just been pulled, her hips start to move against my thighs, tentative at first, before the music changes to a pop-centric Chappell Roan remix. Her movements become more fluid, the beat taking over.

I move with her, pulling her closer as her body grinds against mine, and her head falls back on my chest. Whatever resistance she had minutes ago fades as she settles against me, trusting me to hold her while our bodies sway in the maddening beat. I’m supporting her full weight, and I know she can feel me pressing against her back as she arches and wiggles and grinds against me like a seasoned dancer.

With my gaze pinned to her profile, I watch her eyes flutter closed as the hand at her throat squeezes slightly, not enough to restrict air flow, but enough to remind her who she’s dancing with.

Dancing for.

Her mouth opens, and the DJ’s heavy bass mix swallows her gasp, but I don’t miss it. There’s a flush to her cheeks, one that can’t be concealed by makeup. Even under the darkened overhead lights, I can see how her skin is painted in rose, a light pink that seems to swallow her olive complexion. My darker skin contrasts her reddened flesh, making my breath stutter at how we seem to complement each other: our bodies, our minds, our racing hearts.

Unable to stop myself, I lean down, my lips grazing her ear, and taunt, “Are you feeling good, ciern?”

She doesn’t answer but continues to dance as if I didn’t just ask a very important question. I chuckle darkly, loving the game she’s playing but annoyed by her nonresponse.

Bending my knees, the hand settled on her hip moves down, brushing against her bare upper thigh. Seraphina tenses under my touch, her body stilling at the movement.

“Relax, ciern.”

“Lincoln, what are you doing?” She tilts her head, whispering into my ear.

I let my hand drift over her skin, gathering her goosebumps as my fingers graze her inner thigh. “Dancing.”

She lets out a surprised laugh as my hand spreads, my pinky skimming just below the juncture of her thighs.

With her body against mine, her pulse fluttering under my touch, I decide to bring up last week.

“Seeing you last week fucked me up, ciern.” My words are spoken into her ear, a barely audible confession. “Four fucking years, and then you show up, looking like a little angel in red, sent to ruin my goddamn life.”

Her pulse is frantic under my fingers at her throat, and I feel her swallow thickly.

“And then you ran from me, not once, but twice. The first time, I could forgive. But in Ava and Grey’s kitchen, you wouldn’t let me get in a word. You wouldn’t hear a damn thing other than the hysteria boiling up inside you. You’re going to listen now though, aren’t you ciern?”

She nods immediately, her head hitting my chest with her nonverbal response.

“Do you trust me, Seraphina?”

She hesitates this time. If she tells me no, I’ll remove my hands and lead her to the sanctuary of the bar or to the protection of her sister and the other girls she came with.

But her refusal never comes.

Instead, her hand, the one that hung loosely at her side, trails up her body, a slow snake that doesn’t stop until it covers my hand at her throat. Grabbing my fingers, I’m surprised by her tight squeeze right before she rips my hand from her body and spins on me, glaring up with fire and anger in her eyes.

“Don’t do this, Lincoln,” she yells, her voice straining over the music. “We cannot do this. You have a girlfriend and a partner, and I refuse to be the other woman. I refuse to be the reason a happy relationship ends.”

My hands shoot out, cradling her jaw and forcing her eyes on me. I told Grey and Dante about the breakup last Sunday, thinking it would somehow travel and telephone its way back to Seraphina. Hell, I even tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t let me. Instead, it stayed a secret.

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