Page 37 of The Playboy

Why? Why? Why?

I eyed a woman nearby. Her hair was almost as dark as my locks. Her body was similar. Her dance moves just as good as mine. “Why not her?”

“I don’t even need to look at her to tell you.” His eyelids narrowed. “The answer is easy. She’s not you.”

“But you don’t know me.” A feeling in my chest caused me to add, “You know absolutely nothing about me.”

When he pulled his hand back, I swore I felt the tips of his fingers. Or maybe I was just remembering what they’d felt like, fantasizing about them.

Silently begging for him to touch me without my permission.

“You’re right. I don’t know your name. I don’t know what you do, where you live. What you love and hate.” He tucked that same hand under the opposite arm, like he was forcing himself not to reach for me again. “The things I know only involve your body. Your taste. Scents. The spots that you like to have licked a little harder than the rest of you. How you enjoy your clit rubbed as you come.” He broadened his shoulders, reminding me of how muscular they were. “Those are the things I know for sure. The things that have brought me here every night, hoping like hell you’d show up.”

Heat didn’t just move across my face; it came through like a tsunami.

But it didn’t stop at my scalp or the base of my neck; the warmth continued down my chest and over my back and into my stomach, where it increased in temperature before it plowed down my legs.

“I’m here because I want to know more.”

I sucked in the tiniest amount of air—all that my lungs would allow.

He wanted to know more about me?

Or my body?

Did I even want the answer to that question? Because it had the potential to change everything.

Why was I even thinking about any of this?

My God.

“Since I’m already up here, I can’t exactly catch you, so how about you let me carry you? Or I can walk you down the ladder, whichever you prefer.”

“And go back to the party bus?” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“It didn’t seem like you had a problem with it before.” He paused. “But there is no party bus this time. I’m here alone.”

That reply made my thoughts run even faster.

Alone meant … I’d go home with him?

But first, I’d be carried down the ladder, pressed against his hard, muscular frame. I would fit perfectly in his arms—I knew that. I’d been in that spot before. Even our hands were compatible—his huge and overpowering, making my fist feel like the size of a golf ball, palmed within a catcher’s mitt.

My body was being tugged in only one direction while my head was all over the place.

I had come here to unplug, and I was completely plugged into him.

I had to … stop this.

“You shouldn’t be here.” My hands went to my hips. “I’m not what you want. Trust me … I’m not.” I waited for movement. For a change in his eyes. For a rebuttal. Anything. “Please accept that.” When he still didn’t move, his face unreadable, I turned around and began to dance.

But I could feel his eyes boring through my body.

His presence as it caused the air to thicken. To wrap around me. To coat my skin like lotion.

No matter what, I wasn’t going to face him.

I wasn’t going to allow myself to use him as an escape. That was what dancing was for. I didn’t need to change that. I didn’t need more. This club gave me everything I needed.

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