Page 9 of Seven Night Stopover

Noah shrugged. “You didn’t seem all that interested in the drink. Besides, it’s more cool than chilled right now, and champagne should be enjoyed immediately or the joy goes out of it.”

Jesus, was he really standing here discussing the perfect drinking temperature of champagne like some snooty etiquette junkie? His ex had been the one who’d concerned herself with social bullshit like that.

“I’m sure I had another five minutes before it went flat.” She looked at the glass but made no move to pick it up.

Legend crooned aboutcurvesandedges. Noah struggled not to check out her curves just one more time.

“Dance with me,” he said abruptly.

What the hell?He hated dancing. Hadn’t come remotely close to a dance floor since senior prom. And that had been because he’d wanted to soften Emily Bianchini up a little before he taught that cock-teasing princess a hard fucking—pun intended—lesson in the back of his hired limo.

But short of grabbing her delicate wrist and dragging her off to a dark corner to explore those incredible curves, dancing was his best solution. He couldn’t stand this close and not touch. Dancing gave him an excuse to touch. Because he had to put his hands on her… Make sure that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. That she was real.

She shook her head. “I don’t dance. Sorry.” The apology was tacked on, almost as an afterthought.

He suppressed a smile. “Neither do I. But if we stand here any longer eyeballing one another, something will catch fire. And at thirty thousand feet, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

She laughed. He caught a flash of silver.

Noah was pretty sure his vision blurred for several seconds. His breath whistled through his teeth as his brain computed what he was seeing.

A stud.

She had a fucking tongue piercing. The idea of what that silver stud could do to his cock froze his thought processes, then blitzed anticipated pleasure though his already-roaring bloodstream.

When he refocused, she was staring straight at him, the laughter wiped from her face. Fresh hunger slammed into his gut then clenched tight in a vice as awareness blazed in her eyes.

“Dance,” he croaked.

“Yes.”

The dance floor was set in a larger circle around the room, making the bar the focal point. Several guests were in the “getting to know each other” phase, some a little further along than others.

One of the women he’d considered a possible candidate, a statuesque redhead with enough experience in her eyes to make any guy contemplate a session between the sheets with her, glanced his way. Her gaze swung to his companion, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

Noah ignored her. She wouldn’t have held his interest for more than a few hours.

Whereas the woman whose scent lingered in his nostrils…

He turned abruptly, already starved of the sight of her.

She was right behind him, her gaze seeking and finding his. Elation and deep anticipation roared through him. He stepped closer, ready to take her in his arms.

She raised a hand. “Wait.”

The imperious command wasn’t what made him freeze. It was the brief panic on her face.

What the hell?

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I will be. I just… I just need to initiate contact first. Do you mind?”

Shock slammed into him. Followed swiftly by the realization thata,he didn’t mind, andb,she wasn’t really asking him but telling him.

He’d need to address that when they entered the bedroom.

He nodded slowly, every atom in his body on edge and intrigued. “Go for it.”

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