He gave me a strange look—who could blame him—and then shrugged.
The music was blaring—how was this song still going on?—so I let that and the alcohol take over. My shoulders took the lead, swaying as the music flowed through me. No one in my life could ever accuse me of being a good dancer, but I was enthusiastic and I loved it. Loved to dance.
Ollie was a good dancer, giving himself completely to the music, head thrown back, arms up, hips hitting each bass note like they were playing the drums themselves. I could sense that Gabe was still there, but I couldn’t look at him. If he was a dorky dancer—like most straight men—I wasn’t ready for my fantasy of him to dissolve completely.
The music shifted and switched over. It was another great song—whoever was in charge of the music tonight must have just plugged the speaker directly into my memories. It was the perfect nostalgia overload—all my favorite pop songs from college. From a time when I actually went out on a regular basis—when I could drink vodka–Red Bulls and still go to class the next day. I knew that I’d be hurting tomorrow, but the music was so good and I felt so good that I didn’t want to stop.
I didn’t have moves, but I had a lot of hair, so I swung it around, loving the way it felt against the low-cut back of my dress. A little intimacy that I could share with myself. I was having fun.
I swung my arms out at a key moment and hit something hard.
Gabe’s stomach.
I’d done my best to avoid touching him. It was unprofessional.
But I wanted to. Wanted him.
Wanted him with such an intensity that it scared me a bit.
I pulled my hand back, but he’d already caught me. With a move that was impossibly smooth, he gave my wrist a gentle yank and spun me into his arms.
All the touching I’d tried to avoid was happening now. From chest to knees. We were pressed up against each other, my hand trapped between us, his palm flat against my lower back. He felt good. He felt incredibly good.
I stared at his throat. There was a little sweat there and I could smell whatever extremely expensive cologne he was wearing mixed with something more primal. More like him.
I was too drunk. Not just on alcohol, but on the intoxication of being close to someone I’d lusted after for a long, long time. Someone who’d felt untouchable. Unattainable.
Someone who was definitely getting hard.
I could feel the unmistakable press of him against my stomach. Slowly, I looked away from the collar of Gabe’s shirt and upward toward his face.
He was watching me. His gaze was intense, unwavering, and I could feel him take a breath—could feel how unsteady it was.
My heart was pounding so hard it was almost painful.
The music felt like a thick steam, surrounding us, capturing us, isolating us.
The dance floor was dark—not that dark—but dark enough. I didn’t know where Ollie was. He could have been right behind me, he could have been across the room. I couldn’t focus on anything but Gabe’s face. On his eyes, staring, fixed, unblinking.
I’d practically memorized his face on-screen. Thought I knew it. But this was something new. Something different.
He still wasn’t quite real, even though I could feel him—all of him—against me. It felt like a fantasy. A really, really great fantasy, but a fantasy nonetheless.
There was a voice in the back of my head that kept trying to break through the surreal haze that had settled around me. Reminding me that I was a reporter and Gabe was my subject and there were a whole bunch of questionable power dynamics at play here.
I’d been so worried that he’d think I’d do anything to get a good story that I hadn’t stopped to consider that he might not have any reservations about doing it himself.
Then his hips pressed harder against mine. For a moment, I thought I might be falling, might be losing my balance, but then I realized he was moving in time with the music, his hips swaying forward, back, side to side.
He was a good dancer.
He wasn’t flashy or enthusiastic or even that demonstrative. He was subtle. I doubted that anyone but me could tell that he was even moving to the music. But he was. Perfectly. Seductively.
One hand moved to my hip, the other pressed in the curve of my spine, just above my ass. Keeping me close. Not that I was going anywhere. In fact, I just melted further into his arms, my own hands moving to his biceps. Shit, they were hard.
He was hard. So hard.
I didn’t want to think about all the ways this was professionally problematic. I didn’t want to think about how this might be Gabe’s way of buttering me up, making sure I’d write a good article about him. I didn’t want to think about how completely insane all of this was.
What I wanted was to be closer to him. To touch him.
The hand on my hip moved upward, stroking my side, my arm, and then coming to rest against my chest. Not my chest-chest, but my sternum. His thumb stroked my clavicle and I sighed. It wasn’t loud enough that he would have heard, but he definitely felt it.
I could tell, because he smiled.
A slow, wicked smile.
Then, with his other arm wrapped fully around my waist, he gave my chest a gentle push.
Somehow, I knew exactly what he was doing, and this time, I did swoon back. I let my body go limp and collapse over his arm.
He should have stumbled. Should have lost his balance.
But he was Gabe Parker and he knew exactly what he was doing.
His grip on me was ironclad, and before I knew it, I’d been swung back up into his arms.
What is this Dirty Dancing shit? I thought as I was pulled upright.
My mouth was hanging open. It felt like a scene out of a movie. The whole thing was bizarre and surreal and unbearably sexy.