Two women sit on each of his friends’ laps, and a pretty blonde socialite is talking to Malcolm, looking at him in complete rapture.
Music pulses through the speakers. Bodies bump and jostle as I steal this moment to watch him while he’s not watching me. Tan, his hair standing up a little bit, his shirt rolled to the elbows like it always is at the clubs, where it gets hot and crazy. God, butterflies.
He’s laughing as he turns, rather casually scanning the room, and then his shoulders tense. My heart stops, flips, because he’s noticed me. Then I’m subjected to the seriously uncomfortable pressure of his scrutiny.
He cocks a brow, and once again he gets that curl to his lip. You going to stay there all night? I can almost hear him say.
Saint sets his drink down on the side table and comes over. Every step makes my heart beat faster and faster. He looks at me, starting at my feet and working his way upward—his eyes miss no detail.
“Rachel.” He draws me into his strong arms and presses a kiss to my cheek, the brush of his lips so incredibly light I can’t believe such a minuscule gesture can do so many things to my body. I’m having a war inside myself as I try to steady my breathing as he takes my hand and tugs me to their table in the back. I was born a girl; I’ve got proof of that on my birth certificate. But I’ve never felt so much like a girl until this moment, when my hand feels tiny and fragile in his strong grip.
Callan and Tahoe greet me through the music. “Hey Rache!” “Hey Rache!”
I slide into the booth and Malcolm settles down beside me, his shirt stretching in so many places I can’t help feeling constrained in my own skin just by the sight.
He orders a drink for me, then sits back, looking as relaxed as I am tense. Something happened when he visited my apartment. The fact that it mattered to him if I was feeling well or not touched a chord, but also, he opened up to me in a way that surprised me, and, even more surprisingly, I opened up to him. We both shared things—real things. Now, the intimacy between us is so palpable right now that every inch of me aches to get closer, as close as we felt that night.
His arm outstretched behind me, his friends continue to banter and do wicked things to their whores with their drinks. “How was your week, Rachel?” At Saint’s question, a warm glow of excitement flows through my veins, because there’s real interest in his gaze.
“Good. My work is good. My mother’s good. I . . . well, I don’t want to bore you.” But I smile. I can’t remember when anyone’s looked so attentive listening to me describe what my week was like.
Then I ask him about his trip to London—because of course I read that he was there for forty-eight hours—and he says it was “good,” then shifts the subject back to me.
“What are you writing about now?” he whispers.
He’s always so focused on everything I say; people pass and slap his back or call his name, and never once does he lift his head to acknowledge anyone apart from me. Just as engrossed in him and having trouble steering away from dangerous topics, I hedge and say, “Researching for next week’s column.”
I notice one of his outstretched arms is farther down on the back of my seat, and think, My topic is you.
A painful yearning hits me dead center. Whoa. Where did that come from?
I glance down at my lap as I try to regroup. Why, oh why do these feelings of instability have to happen to me with you?
Is it because I want to draw you out when you get so serious and you’re not teasing me?
Or is it that you really want to know, for some inexplicable reason, the things that move me?
Or maybe it’s because you make me so nervous . . . or maybe, simply, because you asked?
I drag in a breath, aware of being watched through those thick lashes by those boundless, deep-set eyes, green like the forest, hiding all the secrets of somebody who’s never really reveals his cards until the game is won. Cunning eyes. Male eyes. Interested eyes. I want to shut myself up and not keep putting myself out there with him while he’s still giving me back hardly anything at all, but I can’t help wanting to answer him when he asks me questions. I glance at the dance floor and slowly rise to my feet, tugging his hand.
“Dance with me,” I tell him.
I’m sick and tired of wondering, stressing, wanting and fighting it. I’m tired of thinking, of trying not to feel. Suddenly all I want is to dance with him. An hour of fun, an hour of being just a girl with a guy.
He cocks a brow, says nothing . . . but he stands. He stands slowly, like a serpent uncoiling. I laugh and tug on his hand a little more to lead him to the connecting room, where the dance floor is. “Dance with me, Saint.”