His hand is large and long-fingered in mine as I tug him forward, and he lets me lead him, like a lazy wild animal indulging his prey before pouncing, and he steps onto the dance floor with me, his hands lifting to my hips. A fire churns inside me when I glance up to see the wicked tilt at the corners of his lips.
He watches me as I move sinuously under his hands, up and down and sideways, using him as a pole. A pole I want to kiss, just like any other girl, because it turns out I’m pretty human after all. He starts letting his hands roam up and down my sides, his eyes glinting like a devil’s. I take his hands and put them on my nape so he holds me close. My stupid head can’t think—my thoughts are all blanked. I want him naked, sweaty, out of his element, not smirking, not amused, definitely not in control.
“Is that the best you can do?” I taunt, surprised when he yanks me closer.
Then, with my hips in his hands, he moves me. Wow. He’s hard. All. Over. People jumping around us, bumping against us, Malcolm dances like his body is an extension of mine. He draws me against him with very little effort on his part, and the stubble of his jaw scrapes against my nape as he pulls my hair to the side and runs the silver rings on his hand up the column of my neck. I’m so shocked by the soft sensuality in his movements and touch, the stealth and ripple of his muscles against mine, how safe and excited I feel in his arms, I’m high on this feeling. On him. On this night. I’m stealing touches that might definitely be too close to the fire, but my hands have a mind of their own. Part of me is crazed. His lips were made to kiss, his hands to touch; that’s the sole purpose of his thick hair: for women to cling to while he pounds them hard. His eyes seem to offer peeks into heaven and into some kind of party in hell, and I’m maddened by it all.
I run my fingers up his shirt, around his square shoulders, savoring the rock-hard feel of his muscles. I couldn’t stop the way I want to touch him even if I tied myself up!
The song ends, and he takes my hand and leads the way back to the table. Beads of perspiration run down between my breasts. Dozens of stares come at us; nearly every woman in the room is surveying me, head to toe, most with expressions that tell me they want to claw my skin off.
I almost wince.
At the booth, Callan is relating Saint anecdotes to the socialite whores.
“Oh yeah, but Saint crushed those rumors.”
“Crushed!” Tahoe proudly echoes, fist to palm.
Ignoring them, Malcolm pulls me into the booth with him and resumes his position with his arm on the backrest of my seat, his head lowered in my direction so I can feel his warm breath at the back of my ear. “Hey . . . look at me,” he coaxes as he slides his hand to my thigh and my thoughts scatter.
The touch sparks all my nerve receptors, all my yearning. I don’t know if it’s been building for minutes, hours, days, weeks, or my whole life, but I know I’m never aware of it unless he’s near. Ruled by impulse now, I turn around and lean a little against him. He shifts so that his arm is now loose around my shoulders, and shiver as his fingers wander under the fall of my hair. His friends are talking. Saint whispers in my ear, “You look very pretty.”
Suddenly my cheeks are burning and my stomach turns into a live thing.
The music stops and “Kiss You Slow” by Andy Grammer starts. He cups my face, his eyelids at half-mast. He kisses the corner of my lips.
The air feels like a lick of fire on my skin.
He gathers me tighter and flatter against his side, then drags all four of his silver-ringed fingers down the side of my face, his eyes following their path. “I’m with the hottest girl in the Tunnel tonight,” he murmurs as he rubs my lipstick off my mouth with the sexiest brush of his thumb I could imagine.
And there, in his beautiful eyes, is a wild desire mirroring the one inside me. Desire unlike anything I’ve ever known clogs my throat, drives me to gently nip his thumb. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. The song is talking about kissing slow . . .
My perspective zooms out for a little bit, and I become aware of his friends making out in their corner with their whores just like Saint is making out with me. Of my friends mingling out there, somewhere. Of people dancing, others glancing in our direction. And of my life, changing, right this moment, somehow, as he stares at my face, the colors in his eyes shifting like a kaleidoscope as he seems to battle with the same confusing emotions that I am.
He takes my hips and slowly guides me to his lap. I go all too willingly, loosening my body so he can sit me sideways while I clutch onto his neck for dear life.
“Do you want this?” he whispers as he reaches beneath my skirt and I feel the warmth of his hand caressing the inside of my thigh.
Heart violently fluttering in my chest, my fingertips slide up his neck as I try to press closer. His neck is hard and thick and I duck my head to smell him. Then I whisper recklessly in his ear, “I’m with the most handsome guy.”