Page 54 of The Beautiful Collision
Sure enough, when the waitress delivers the bottle and Maya reads the note, every hockey player in the vicinity takes notice. But I don’t give a shit what those idiots think right now, because Maya’s eyes find mine across the crowd, and she smiles at me.
“See?” I tell Rook, clinking my beer against his. “Progress.”
But as the night wears on and the alcohol flows, the inhibitions start to erode even more. The dance floor becomes a magnet, pulling everyone into its sweaty, pulsing center. I watch Maya disappear into the crowd with her friends, and something hot and possessive flares in my chest.
“Dude, she’s right there,” Mike says, appearing at my shoulder like the world’s most helpful wingman. “What are you waiting for?”
He’s right. I’m standing here like an idiot while she’s out there, probably grinding against some random asshole. So I wade into the crowd, letting the mass of bodies part around me, and find her in the center, because of course she is.
Maya doesn’t do anything by half.
She’s dancing with Sophie and another girl I don’t recognize, her arms raised above her head, completely lost in the music. The strobe lights catch on her skin, turning her into fragments oflight and shadow, and I want nothing more in this moment thanher.
I don’t ask.
I don’t announce myself.
I just move in behind her, close enough that she has to feel my presence even before we touch. It’s like the night of the party butsomuch more, because this time there’s no hesitation. She melts back against me like we’ve done this a thousand times, her ass grinding against me.
My hands find her hips, and, through the thin fabric of her dress, I can feel the heat of her skin and the subtle play of muscle as she moves. This was supposed to be for show, for the dozens of eyes I know are watching us, but the second we connect, something shifts.
“You feel good against me,” I murmur in her ear.
She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she reaches back, her hand finding my thigh, nails digging in. It’s possessive, intimate, and mind-blowingly hot, doing nothing to fix my dilemma—the bet versus my real feelings for Maya—but right now all I want is her.
The crowd presses closer, the darkness between songs providing cover, and I decide that’s either brilliant or completely fucking stupid. My right hand slides from her hip, down to the hem of her dress, already riding high from her dancing and barely covering anything…
Don’t. This is insane. You’re in public. You already have feelings for her and?—
But then she shifts, a subtle adjustment of her hips that gives me better access, and my brain short-circuits entirely. My fingers slip under the fabric, finding smooth, warm skin. She’s wearing something lacy, barely there, and when my middle finger presses against the fabric, I find it already soaking.
Fuck.Fuck.
She grinds back against me harder.
And it’s clear permission to take this as far as I want to go.
The crowd provides perfect cover. Everyone’s drunk, focused on their own grinding and groping. The lights are chaotic, disorienting. No one’s paying attention to my hand disappearing under her dress, to the way my finger slips beneath the edge of her panties.
The first touch of slick heat nearly brings me to my knees. She’s soaked, and the knowledge that I did this—that our dancing got her this worked up—sends a bolt of pure possessive pride through me. I sink one finger inside her, slow and deep, and feel her whole body shudder.
But here’s the thing that’s absolutely destroying me: she keeps dancing. Her face stays neutral, maybe a little flushed, but to anyone watching, she’s just another girl lost in the music. Only I can feel the way her inner muscles clench around my finger. Only I can sense the tiny tremors running through her body.
Only I notice when she bites her lower lip, hard, to stifle a moan.
It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced, the best episode of the Maine Show yet. This secret, this shared knowledge that I’m finger-fucking her in the middle of a packed dance floor and she’s taking it, working with it, turning it into part of her performance.
I add a second finger, curling them just right, moving faster and with more pressure. In return, her rhythm falters for just a second, and her hand on my thigh tightens to the point of actual pain, and I lean down to whisper in her ear again.
“You’re incredible,” I tell her, and I mean it.
Not just for the obvious reason—though Christ, the way she feels around my fingers is driving me insane—but also for the control, the daring, the way she’s turned what should be mymove into our conspiracy. The way this woman can match me more than anyone on Earth.
And I love it.
She responds by reaching behind her, her hand finding the obvious bulge in my jeans. She doesn’t grab, doesn’t stroke—that would be too obvious. Instead, she just presses her palm against me, a firm, deliberate pressure that has me fuckingthrobbingfor her.
The song changes, something slower but still heavy on the bass, and she turns in my arms. My fingers slip out of her, and I have to fight not to groan at the loss. But then she’s facing me, her arms around my neck, and the look I’ve grown used to in her eyes…
