Page 7 of The Delta's Rogue
We stare at each other, my tall form towering over her petite body, both of us pushed closer by the dancing bodies around us. Neither of us moves or speaks, though. We both wait. For what, I’m not sure, but time tugs and strains at my forbearance, needling at me, prompting me to act.
I step towards her until there’s only an inch of space between our bodies. My hands coast over her hips, and my nose brushes hers as I lean in, holding her so we’re as close as we can be without our bodies touching.
Her hands slide up my chest, over the slightly-too-small white shirt I borrowed from her packmate. She attempts to close the distance between us, to press her tight little body against mine, but my grip on her prevents that. She won’t get closer to me unless I want her to.
My hands guide her hips, twisting them in a slow figure eight. Our foreheads touch as she curls her fingers into the fabric of my shirt, her eyes closing and neck arching slightly. It’s imperceptible to anyone watching us, but it’s monumental to me.
It’s submission, pure and sweet, and given to me freely by this feisty female. Her body is pliant in my hands as I manipulate her dance moves, coaching her to move in a way that pleases me. She’s a quick study, picking up on the subtle instruction I give her as she dances.
She moves like a dream, responsive to my slightest touch. The beat of the music pulses and races, matching our hearts and the cadence of our breaths. But the dance I guide herthrough is sensual and seductive, timed to the layered nuances of the music.
I watch her every move, gazing down at her inviting body. Her eyelids flutter, staying half closed as if she’s in a trance. Her muscles flex and relax under my touch, and my fingertips skim her bare midriff, right above the waist of her pants. The skin is warm and damp with her sweat. At my touch, a little shudder ripples over her.
Her neck stays arched, exposed and vulnerable, her pulse thrumming beneath the skin, and I’m tempted to bury my face there. That honeysuckle scent of hers would be stronger there, sweeter and more intoxicating, twining around me like a vine climbing up a trellis.
Everything about her is hypnotic, entrancing: her parted plump lips and those round “fuck me” eyes, the gentle bouncing of her breasts beneath her top and the dewy, glistening sheen on the swell of them peeking out at me, the careful swaying of her hips as we dance together. All of it is a potion of lust, one she’s brewing for me and me alone. One I’m unsure I have the strength and stamina to resist.
Maybe that’s what drives me so crazy. Try as I might, I can’t get her out of my system, out of my mind. I still remember the way her body felt on top of mine when she tackled me in the woods, her legs straddling my hips and our chests pressed together. She caught me by surprise in more ways than one—with her unexpected attack, and with the unparalleled, immediate attraction and familiarity I felt upon laying eyes on her. No one has ever captured my attention like she has.
I doubt anyone else ever will.
It’s a dangerous notion, but it’s the truth. I don’t know what to make of that. My reliable instincts are no help in the matter. She defies all of it, remaining outside the reach of my intuitive senses—another element of her existence that drives me insane.
Sarina’s eyes flick over my shoulder, and she frowns, the spell of our dance broken by the expression. “She’s back.”
I huff in exasperation. “They made us wait. We can make them wait.” I yank her body against mine, finally closing that minute yet vast distance between us. Sarina’s arms circle my neck, feeling way too good and way too right resting there. “We’ll speak to her when this song ends.”
Then we’re immersed in the magic of the music and the movements, our bodies now pressed together. I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand almost on her ass, and my nose drags along her sharp, high cheekbones until my lips brush her ear, and hers brush mine. Her panting breath tickles my skin as we dance, and Goddess if the feel and sound of the air passing between her parted lips don’t make me harder than a rock.
I’m playing with fire, tempting fate with every move I make, every decision that places me in the path of Sarina’s flames, every choice that draws her further into my world and my arms. At the rate I’m going, I’ll end up burnt to a crisp.
Maybe I want that—to be caught in her flames. Maybe I want the heat of her to singe my soul.
The song changes, and Sarina backs away from me, dispelling the illusion. Her hooded eyes blink several times, her usual sassy expression gone as she stares at me.
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and stroll back to the bar with her tucked into my side, protecting her from wandering hands. I don’t care about eyes, about others checking out her gorgeous little body. They can look at her all they want, as long as they keep their hands away.
We reach the bar, and I greet the bartender with only a raised brow, waiting for her to talk.
“Lou said he’ll speak with you.” She grabs a glass to clean it. “He’s waiting in his office.”
“Thanks.” I smirk as I grab my jacket from the barstool, throw it over my shoulder, and head around the counter.
My hand on Sarina’s shoulder slides down her arm to entwine our fingers together. I shove through the swinging door, disappearing behind it with Sarina in tow, and take an immediate right to head up the stairs to the offices.
We’re halfway up when I spin to face her, one hand on each wall to brace myself as I stare at her. She pauses on the step right below me, her face angled up to mine, our noses almost touching—much like on the dance floor.
“I know you want to help”—my eyes scan her face and avoid gazing lower, where her chest heaves from our sensual dancing—“but this male is from my pack, so I need you to leave the questioning to me.”
She narrows her eyes but says nothing in response.
“Can you do that?”
Sarina licks her lips and swallows, and although there is a spark of rebellion in her deep brown eyes, she says, “Yes, sir.”
My throat tightens, breath hitching in my chest, and my cock twitches in my pants. I flick my eyes down to her lips, which are shiny and plump like a fruit ripe for the taking.
Ideas flash through my mind, a carousel of images of her using those two simple words in various situations. No image lasts longer than half a second and no image sticks out more than another, but they’re all sexy as sin and tempting as hell.
