Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
"Are you sure?" she calls over the music.
I motion drink then point to my phone. "Call me if you need me. Or you go home."
"You'll be okay?"
"I will." I turn to the alt guy. "My friend would love to dance."
He seems to understand, because he moves into Izzie's space right away.
I take the chance to use the restroom, fix my makeup, down a glass of water. When I'm rested and hydrated, I check the dance floor.
The space is packed. I can't see Izzie or Max. Is he here? Upstairs?
At home with another woman?
I bump into someone. A tall man in jeans and a sports jacket.
Handsome enough, but not Max.
He asks me to dance.
I accept.
Better to think about something else. Anything else. As long as it's not Max.
For a few minutes, I move in time with the stranger. He keeps his distance, but he still feels too close.
Someone bumps into me. I trip on my heel. Fall into the guy's arms.
He catches me and helps me up. He's a gentleman about it and he's strong and sure, but he feels wrong.
There's nothing odd about it. I don't usually like this kind of guy. I don't like older men. I don't like men in suits. I don't like designer watches or silk ties or eye crinkles.
"Thanks for the dance." I take a step backward, to find my footing, find some space, but I bump into something hard.
Someone.
No, not someone.
Max.
Chapter Twelve
MAX
Opal's big blue eyes go wide. For a moment, she stares with appreciation and wonder. Then her expression shifts.
First, to victory. Then, to frustration.
She says something, but I can't hear her over the music. I can't form a thought. I'm too drawn to her.
The dark makeup around her eyes, the red lips, the long straight hair.
The Opal I saw in my bed. The young woman ready to explore her sexuality and claim what she wants.
Then the adornments picked specifically to drive me out of my mind: the hot pink shoes, the short black dress, the harness crisscrossing her chest.
She's not wearing it for me. This is a busy club. There are dozens of potential dates here. Maybe even her date. Maybe that's the truth.
And who the fuck do I think I am, believing she dresses for me? Is my ego that ridiculous?
But the mix of frustration and desire in her eyes—
How can it be anything else?
She wants me. She hates that she wants me. She hates me for telling her our night together meant nothing.
"What are you doing here?" She moves closer, so her lips are inches from my ear. In her heels, she's the perfect height.
The scent of her shampoo fills my nostrils. Citrus and honey. And something else, some mix of soap and Opal. It takes every ounce of my restraint to keep my hands at my sides. "The same thing you are."
She scoffs, not believing me or realizing we're both full of shit.
"Where's your date?" I ask.
"They wanted to dance with someone else."
"You don't mind?"
"We didn't have the right spark."
My stomach settles. She's not going home with someone else. "Are they here?"
"I'm here to dance. So we can dance or you can go."
It's a bluff, but I'm not willing to call her on it. The risk is too great. I can't watch her dance with someone else. I can't watch some man put his hands on her skin, whisper in her ear, offer to tie her to his bed.
She wants to learn. She wants to experience this. She isn't going to stop because I've said no.
Either she's here to drive me wild, or she's here to find someone else.
Both, maybe.
I tell myself it's the latter, that she doesn't care, that I need to release her now, but I don't believe it.
Leave. Do the smart thing. Let her go.
My body disobeys my command. I'm too tired. It's been too long.
Staying here, in New York, surrounded by Raul's work, his space, his business—
There's no break. Only my time with her.
And that isn't enough.
I need more.
I need every fucking drop of sunshine.
I move toward her reflexively. One hand goes to her lower back. The other rests on her shoulder. I brush her hair aside, let my fingers curl around her neck. "Let's."
Her breath hitches as I pull her closer.
Her hands slip under my suit jacket. Curl around my waist.
I've never been a dancer. I've never learned the steps or the gestures.
But I know how to lead.
And Opal knows how to follow.
She shifts with the slightest movements, melting into me the way she did.
She's every bit as pliant and responsive here.
I close my eyes and try to sink into the music.
For a moment, I'm there, dancing with any other woman at any other club. Then I smell her citrus shampoo and I'm here with her, desperate to rip her clothes off and lock her in my castle.