The fact that the song ends and Ian chooses that moment to slide a hand around my waist and ask, “Can I cut in?” certainly doesn’t strengthen my case.
Damon’s eyes dart from my face to Ian’s and I can see him trying to figure out what’s between us—and whether or not I want him to relinquish his hold on me. But before I can say something one way or the other, before either of us can even acknowledge the question, Ian is tugging me out of Damon’s arms and into his.
I stiffen instinctively, but I don’t try to pull away. Partly because I’m pretty sure he won’t let me go until he’s good and ready and partly because I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how confused and messed up I currently am.
Damon moves as if to intervene, but Ian shoots him a look that freezes him in place. It’s pretty impressive, considering I’ve never seen Damon back down from anyone. What’s even more impressive is that Ian doesn’t whirl me away. Instead, he chooses to stay right where we are, an obvious fuck-you to Damon if I’ve ever seen one.
I should do something, say something, but it’s like my brain stopped working the second he touched me. The idea terrifies me considering how hard I have to work to stay even half a step in front of him.
“You look beautiful,” he tells me as he pulls me close. “Your dress is very evocative.”
His hand is just a little too low on my back, his fingers just a little too possessive where they curl around my hip. I do my best to ignore it, just as I ignore the soreness between my thighs and the too-rapid beating of my heart. Instead, I concentrate on keeping my voice steady as I answer, “My mother picked it out. She thinks I need to try out a more serious look if Belladonna is going to be an Oscar contender.”
“It can’t hurt,” he agrees as we rock back and forth to the slow, sultry sound of Natalie Cole’s “Unforgettable.” “But the nomination is yours. I’ve seen the rushes—you’re brilliant as the Belladonna. An absolute natural.”
I know he means it as a compliment, but I can’t take it that way. Not today. Not right now. Still, I try to be gracious, try to say thank you. But the words stick in my throat.
He moves us a little away from Damon, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my old friend watching us. I should reassure him, should let him know that I’m totally fine with dancing with Ian, but he knows me well enough that he’d see right through me if I tried.
So I don’t look at him, but I don’t look at Ian, either. Instead, I keep my head up and my eyes focused anywhere—everywhere—but on the man who is holding me so close. The man whose hand is on my lower back and whose breath is hot against my cheek.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can keep myself from melting into him, can keep this dance completely impersonal. I just have to pretend that I’m dancing with anyone but him. It should be easy—after all, pretending is what I do for a living.
But in the end, it’s not as easy as that. How can it be when Ian is all around me? Crowding me, pinning me down, making me remember everything that happened in that hotel room last night. Making me forget all the promises I made to myself about not sinking into him again.
I take a deep breath, then regret it immediately as the sexy and now familiar scent of bergamot and orange seeps into my senses, into my skin.
I try to move back, to put some distance between us, but he follows me and the overwhelming strength of his long, lean body presses against my breasts, my thighs.
I try to tune him out, but the dark sound of his voice, low and gravelly and just a little hoarse, murmurs hotly against my ear.
And his hand—the same hand that pulled my hair, that pressed bruises into my hips, that spanked me—is now resting against my collarbone, while his long, elegant fingers softly stroke my neck, my jaw, the hollow of my throat.
“Where are the bruises?” he asks quietly, his warm breath sending shivers up and down my spine.
Again I try to ignore him, but there’s something in the black magic of his voice that demands an answer. I want to resist on general principle, except…“Still there. I used makeup to cover them up.”
What is it about this man that makes it so necessary for me to give in to him? No one else would get away with what he so effortlessly does.
“I’m glad. No one needs to see those marks but you and me.” Except even as he’s saying it, his thumb is rubbing back and forth against the right edge of my jaw. It’s a tender spot, one that I know houses a bruise. Just like I know that when he finally stops rubbing it’s because the small, dark purple love bite he left there has finally been exposed.