In effort to remain calm and collected—as much as possible—I concentrate on the song, on the lyrics. Which is a big freaking mistake because they are sexy and a bit dirty. I don’t realize it until I begin to sing along softly. Second mistake? Letting my mind wander, thinking about those lyrics and combining them with Foster Kavanaugh.
Foster Kavanaugh, the same man whose thumb is driving me crazy with the way it’s grazing back and forth over the side of my hip. Pulling me closer, for once the top of my head comes up to his jaw due to my heels. Part of me craves to slide closer, to press my lips against the spot on his neck where I can see his pulse beating. That’s the only indication he might be feeling something right now. For me. His pulse is mesmerizing me—taunting me. I imagine darting my tongue out to taste it before running my teeth against it, grazing it before pressing my lips to it. That image is so clear in my mind—
“You’re killing me, you know that?” he utters in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers through my body. “That tongue of yours, the way it slides out to wet your lips, like you’re thinking about tasting me.”
Shit. I hadn’t realized I had done that.
“You didn’t realize it, did you?” he asks, his voice deep and husky. I can only manage to shake my head.
“You want to dance again tonight you tell me.” He pauses as if to let that sink in. “No one else but me.”
I lean back slightly, raising my eyes to meet his and his whiskey colored gaze glows with heat. “You want to dance with me?” My dubious tone can’t be missed. I can tell he notices it by the way his brows furrow.
Suddenly, I’m tugged closer to him, as close as we can possibly get and there’s no mistaking what I’m feeling. He’s hard—like really hard. For me. His lips brush against the outer shell of my ear. “I think it’s safe to say I want to do more than dance with you, Noelle.”
My breath is knocked right out of me. And it’s not because he just basically told me he wants to fuck me. It’s because he actually said my name. My first name. He said it. Noelle. He never says my name. I’m now realizing it was a good thing because the way it sounds, the way it rolls off his tongue, is like nothing I’ve ever heard. My name sounds so unbelievably sexy and soft the way he says it.
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I can compete with your harem. So there’s that.”
It’s true. Not to mention, I don’t want to be in the position to compete for anything. I know what I’m doing by saying this, and I’m certain he knows it, too. I’m putting distance between us again. Because it’s safer this way. I’m trying hard to remember Foster isn’t for me; the man who has a freaking legion of women who try and attach themselves to him like a succubus.
Before he can respond—if he were even going to, that is—the song ends and changes to a booty dancing tune. I can hear Laney squeal with the other women and I’m tugged from Foster’s embrace and pulled away to join her in dancing to Baby Bash’s, “Baby, I’m Back.”
And the entire time I’m dancing, I swear Foster’s touch lingers on my skin, my body. Where he touched me, where his breath washed over my skin when he spoke.
What’s even worse is there’s a part of me that misses it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Foster
I’m ignoring Doc and Kane. Miller’s too wrapped up in ogling his wife, Tate, while she’s out on the dance floor.
I’m on edge. It all started with the random dude coming over to ask Noelle to dance. I can’t explain what happened, what propelled me out of my seat to go and intervene. Shit, I just about tossed her over my shoulder in caveman mode and said, You. Me. Dance.
Classy. Real classy.
Now, watching all of the women dance, shaking their asses and having a blast—more importantly, watching Noelle shake her ass—has me teetering on the edge, awaiting free fall.
And Kane knows it, the bastard, because he gives me a pointed look, grin widening mischievously.
“It might be more helpful if you just piss all around her, in a circle,” Doc says, leaning in for me to hear him over the music. “Or you could do something wild and crazy and,” he pauses for emphasis, “tell her you like her, then ask her to prom.”
My eyes flick over to glare at him, flipping him the bird, but he’s not fazed in the least, the amusement in his green eyes grating on me.
My friends are assholes. It’s confirmed.
Kane slides out his chair, standing, and holds a hand to me. I stare at him in confusion, and he gives me an exasperated look. “Dance with me, asshole.”
“You’re not my type, Windham.”
He makes a face. “Whatever, darlin’.” He runs a hand down his chest before turning, putting on airs like he’s modeling. “You know I’m as irresistible as my famous seafood gumbo.”
The thing about Kane is that he loves his southern food and is known to make the best seafood gumbo, apparently passed down from his relatives in “Cajun Country,” a.k.a. Louisiana.
“Now, get your ass out there on the dance floor with me. We’ve got to show your woman that you can shake your saltshaker, darlin’.”
My head snaps to stare at Doc. “Did he just refer to my ass as a saltshaker?”
Doc’s unable to restrain his grin, widening farther and farther. “Yup.”