Page 163 of Rock Me All Night
I throw myself into dancing. The world melts away, one piece at a time. The rest of the club. The hyena laugh. Drew's wide-eyed, lust-filled smile as the fangirl mauls him.
It's not even on my mind.
I move closer to the speakers. They drown out every other thought inside my brain. I'm only a vessel for the music. My hips move of their own accord. My chest shifts. My arms sway.
I'm free.
And then there are hands on my hips. Strong hands. A guy's hands. It's a normal part of clubbing. Usually one I enjoy.
But this feels off. I take a step forward to break free of the hands, so it's nothing butmeand the music. Better. That tension between my shoulder blades relaxes. I drift into bliss...
The damn hands are back! I turn to face this guy. He's tall. Broad. He looks like a TV actor—handsome but not out-of-this-world hot. Any other night, I'd welcome him as a dance partner.
I throw my arms above my head and match his movements. He's a good dancer—perfectly in time with the rhythm. It's not all together awful.
He takes a step toward me, so he's pressed up against me. Those hands go to my hips again. No more bliss. I'm utterly on edge, tense and strained in all the wrong places.
"Excuse me." I make my way to the bar, some area free of guys with too few manners to ask permission.
The guy follows me. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"No thank you."
"Come on. It will be fun." He grabs my wrist. The left. Right above my silver watch.
I pull my hand into my chest. Manners be damned, next time he does that, I'm slapping him.
I offer my most polite smile and shake my head. "No thank you. I'm here with someone."
"Who?"
Fine. I hate using this line, but it's the only thing that works on guys like this. "My boyfriend."
The guy takes a long, hard look at me. At my cleavage, mostly. That awkward, awful tension builds between my shoulder blades again.
What the hell? This is supposed to feel good. A hot guy is checking me out. A hot guy wants to press his body up against mine in time with the music.
"Your boyfriend lets you go out like that?" he asks.
"Believe it or not, I have this funny thing called free will." I step backward. "And I don't let guys tell me what to wear."
"Your boyfriend sounds like a pussy."
"I'll let him know your feelings." Okay. The bar thing isn't working. Time for the nuclear option. I make my way to the women's restroom.
The guy follows. "I only want to talk."
"And I don't."
I take a quick step, but, even with my heels, I've got short legs and this guy is all kinds of tall. He's faster than I am.
He grabs my wrist. The right. I shake it off. No slapping necessary. Yet.
"You don't have to be so rude," he says.
Obviously, I do, because he's not taking the hint. I turn so I'm facing the asshole. Anger flares in my gut. I manage to hold my tongue. There are merits to telling this guy what he can do with that grabby hand, but it seems silly to cause a scene. It's easier to slip away with a careful excuse. No conflict necessary.
"Excuse me, ladies' room," I say.
