He leaned into my hand, only slightly, his eyes drifting open and falling on my mouth. I parted my lips and released a shaky breath, delighted with the catch in his inhale.
His eyes swept over all the blonde hair dangling around my arms. Thank God I’d worn it down. He seemed pleased by it, staring thoughtfully at the wavy length. Like he wanted to touch, pull, restrain me with it.
A ripple of heat shivered between my legs, and my chest heaved. I shifted my hand from his cheek to his hairline, sliding my fingers through the thick, brown strands. His eyes jumped to my throat, and I swallowed, relishing the flare in his blistering stare.
By the time he returned to my face, nothing in this world existed but him and me and the sensual language we exchanged with our eyes.
Come closer
, his said, his legs separating from mine to spread wider.
How close?
I stared back, sliding off the stool to stand and leaning my hips into the
V
of his thighs.
Like this?
Gazes locked, he glided his hands up the backs of my knees, pausing on the tops of the stockings, fingers pressing into the skin above. His eyes flashed.
Closer.
With him on the bar stool and me in five-inch heels, we were the same height. This worked in my favor because his arms wound around my back, his hard chest pressed against mine, and his groin cradled my hips. As I gripped his shoulders, his body heat
,
the smell of his shampoo, the molten gold of his irises, all that was him wrapped around me
.
And wrapped in Logan was a toe-curling pleasure trip. So much so, I lost myself in it, in him, in the waves of need spiraling through me. I melted into the hard dips and ridges of his body, my arms looping around his shoulders, my hands running over his nape and through his hair. My lips, hovering an inch from his, separated, my tongue on my teeth, my breaths noisy, desperate.
The hands beneath my dress moved, his long fingers curling inward, gently stroking my inner thighs along the edge of my stockings. Each slow caress against my skin sent a jolt of electricity up my legs. My pussy swelled with heat, dampening my panties.
But none of those sensations compared to the intensity of our unwavering eye contact. I’d never been so caught up in someone’s gaze that every breath, every touch, every needy throb depended on that visual connection. Heavy groping would’ve shattered it. Seductive words would’ve only gotten in the way. Watching him watch me was the best foreplay I’d ever experienced.
His thumbs hooked around the garters on the backs of my thighs. “That”—his lips moved a kiss away from mine—“was me eye-fucking you.”
The thick rasp of his words melted through me, leaving me boneless and spellbound as I tried to decipher all the emotions swirling in my belly. This closeness, the intimacy, whispered all the things I hungered for. Mutual desire. Unguarded passion. Promise of more.
He slid his hands down my thighs, reversed the direction, and ran them up and over the flared skirt. He reached my ass and paused, circling his palms, squeezing. When I flexed my glutes beneath his hands, he leaned in and pressed his lips against my throat.
Oh God, I loved that. The heat of his breath, the bold possession of his hands, the slight lift of his hips as he nudged his erection against my heated center. The hard proof of his desire set my nerve-endings on fire and my heart into a rapid flutter of anticipation.
His hands continued their journey upward, along my spine, curled around my neck, and sifted through my hair. He made a fist in the strands and used the grip to tilt my head to the side. His face slanted the other way as he pulled my mouth to his, stopping just before our lips touched, holding me in a state of torment, where the only thing that separated us was the clash of our quickening breaths.
My hands fell to his shoulders, clinging to that hardness, fingers digging in. The wait was an aching forever, but so fucking worth it when his tongue darted out and touched my mouth.
Tremors rippled through my limbs, and my lips opened instantly.
Then he kissed me, his mouth a hot prison, one I blissfully fell into. And the fall was deep. Stretching the jaw, deep. Coil through the belly, deep. Spasm between the legs.
Deep.
The entire cosmos narrowed until the only things that mattered were him and me and this kiss. His tongue rubbed against mine, his lips moving with aggression and demand. I tightened my grip on his shoulders, my knees wobbling, my face burning against the scrape of his whiskers. Oh God, what a burn. It shimmied over my skin and liquefied my insides.
The kiss strengthened, grew bolder, his tongue fucking my mouth with angry thrusts, the hand in my hair tightening until the follicles screamed in delicious agony. His other hand spread over the rise of my ass, pulling me against his arousal.
I rocked my hips, licking his mouth, our tongues tangling in an intoxicating dance. He tasted like Guinness, a hint of toothpaste, and something warm and exotic and all him.
My fingernails scratched over his shirt, gouging into his shoulder blades. Tingles raced up and down my legs, weakening them. But the arm around my waist held me tight, dizzyingly close, his cock a hard, heavy weight behind his zipper.
My inner walls contracted, aching to be stretched. I wanted to fuck him. Right now. Right here.
Right here.
In a public place.
Fuck! I tore my mouth from his, and we stared at one another, panting for air, lips wet and swollen. The fist in my hair released, lowering to my waist. I dropped my hands to his chest and blinked rapidly. “Fuck.”
A satisfied grin danced at the edge of his mouth.
Goosebumps rose on my arms, my body fevered from arousal and nerves. I leaned back, glanced around the bar, feeling spectacularly exposed, naked, and on display.
The saxophone was no longer playing, but the crowd was gathered around the stage, a buzz charging through the packed bodies.
No one was looking this way, not a single eye watching the make-out session at the bar. I let out a tiny relief of air, hoping my ridiculous paranoia was just that. Ridiculous.
It was just a kiss, and the adultery clause in the contract was specific. There had to be proof of intercourse.
Christ, the way his tongue had fucked my mouth, it sure felt like I’d broken the contract.
Feet shuffled over the stage. Men in bow ties weaved around the piano, drums, and the upright bass. The band was setting up. But it was the face behind the mic that explained the crowd’s fascination.
The lights lowered, and I turned to Logan. “Been here before?”
He twisted at the waist, looking around. “No.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.” I nodded at the stage and glanced over at him, the strong lines of his face etched in confusion, his eyes taking everything in.
Standing in the
V
of his legs, I leaned a hip against his hard thigh and rested an arm around his shoulder, angling us toward the stage. “Richard Cheese is making one of his impromptu appearances tonight.”
His head jerked back. “That’s his name? Dick cheese?”
Oh boy. I grinned. This was going to be a blast. “He does rock and hip-hop covers.
Lounge-
style. Really naughty songs crooned in a jazz voice. It’s fucking awesome.”
His left brow dipped low. He didn’t look convinced.
“If you haven’t heard
My neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack
bellowed by a white guy with a heart full of soul, you haven’t lived.”
“Definitely need a life then.” He smiled, and I felt it everywhere, surging my pulse with excitement.
The banging of the lowest piano key strummed through the room, followed by a series of high keys. As the tap of the hi-hat joined in, the crowd cheered.
I grabbed my clutch off the bar and waved it at the bartender. He skidded over, and I tossed it to him. “Hold this behind the bar?”
“You got it.”
Logan gripped my waist, turning me to face him. “What are you doing?”
The horns kicked in, and Richard Cheese’s “Ahhhhhhh” rose in crescendo.
Logan widened his eyes, his tone incredulous. “Is this
Welcome To The Jungle
?”
Nodding, I spun out of his grip and strode toward the crowded floor by the stage, a dance floor Collin and I used to tear up ten years ago. Back then, I danced to woo the crowd. But time had changed me. My desires had changed. I didn’t want the attention of an entire room. I only wanted
his
attention.
I sensed him following me as I crossed the club, my gait seductive, confident, the length of my legs leading, giving the illusion of dragging my toes through each sensual stride. Hips rolling with the beat, I stretched my arms heavenward and melted into the music. My body loosened with each step, my hands roaming my shoulders, the outer curves of my breasts, the dip in my waist.
As the drummer tapped the crash, I stopped, looked over my shoulder, eyes downward as if watching my ass shake with each
tap tap tap.
Lifting my eyes, they landed on Logan. His chin down, gaze up and locked on mine, he prowled toward me, stalking me, as he rolled up his sleeves.
Was he going to dance? My heart raced, and my skin heated. I curled my finger in a come-hither, swinging my hips and walking backwards. A backwards walk during which I never removed my eyes from his, never wanted to for fear he might disappear.
I glided over the dance floor, moving in time, my mind replaying our kiss, the heat of his mouth, the skill of his tongue, and I knew it wasn’t enough. I wanted more with this man.
Maybe I wasn’t as competent at hooking up as I used to be, but dammit, I was still attractive. Evader had rejected me for reasons other than my looks, considering he’d never seen my face.
The contract was what discouraged me, time and time again. Well, time was running out. I wasn’t getting any younger.
Screw Trent and screw my sexless marriage. Because right now, avoiding the empty bed at home seemed a whole lot more important than dancing around a contract.
I deserved one night. One fuck-all, live-it-up, the-contract-doesn't-exist night.
Tonight, I intended to rock Logan’s world. On the dance floor. And in his bed.
Melding into the sway of undulating bodies, with my hair down and a gorgeous man studying the move of my body with lust in his eyes, I felt weightless. Growing up, I despised the dance lessons Collin and I had been forced to take, but this,
this
I missed.
The stresses of my career, of Collin’s career, had stolen this. But tonight, I took it back.
As the horns slowed in tempo, I held Logan’s eyes and dragged the backs of my fingers from my chin to my ears, flicking my arms out on a cymbal bang.
He laughed and shook his head, standing on the edge of the dance floor, hands in his pockets.
The pound of piano keys set the rhythm of my walk as I strutted toward him, ankles dramatically crossing one before the other, bending my knees in a rolling bounce.
He slid his hands from his pockets, his stance loose, sexy,
ready
.
As the snare hit a trio of bangs, I whipped my chin from shoulder to shoulder with each crash. Then I pivoted, sidled my back up to his front, and rocked my ass against his arousal.
His hand circled my bicep and lifted my arm, hooking it behind his neck, his body curling around me in an erotic grind. He trailed a knuckle from my raised elbow to the side of my breast, leaving a trail of shivering flesh in its wake. His other hand flattened on my stomach, holding my back flush with his chest, our bodies moving with the rapid kick of the drums.
The song ended on a long blare of horns and a room full of applause.
I turned in his hold as the
snap snap snap
of fingers brought in the next tune, quickly accompanied by the pluck of the bass and Richard Cheese’s sing-songy “Do you feel that? Ohhhhh shit.”
Folding into his irresistible body, I wrapped my arms around his neck and lay my cheek on his chest, following the sway of his hips, letting the slow melody flow through my lungs.
When the beat sped up, I knew he recognized the song because he threw his head back and laughed. Then his eyes lowered to mine, crinkling with a smile, as he mouthed the depraved lyrics to
Down With The Sickness,
jazz-style.
The chorus broke in, and mischief lit up his expression. He angled his lips to my ear. “Foxtrot.”
Before I could respond, his hand was in mine, the other sliding around my lower back, and we were twirling across the dance floor.
With our joined palms raised up and out, he swept me away from the entwined couples in our path, leading the steps with shocking ease. My free hand clung to his shoulder blade, my two-step gliding with fluid memory.
He held me close, closer than one should to pull off a foxtrot. But his feet stayed clear of mine, our movements synchronized, our chemistry out of the fucking stratosphere. When he brought our hands between us, holding mine against his chest and the confident glide of his body guiding me over the floor, the sum of all my desires surged through my veins like liquid fire.
This
was the sexiest dance in existence.
The thump of his heart beat against mine as our chests and thighs slid together. God, he looked great, smelled great, and when he spun me in an underarm turn, I never wanted the greatness to end.
But the song was coming to a close. Would he dance through another? Would he leave me with a parting kiss?
I searched his face, and he stared back with a burning glow in his eyes. If that wasn’t an answer, the dip of his head and the crush of his lips was. Our tongues tangled, our bodies heated with perspiration, our hands grabbing and stroking and yanking.
I pulled back. “I’ll get my purse.”
He captured my face in the grip of his hands and kissed me again with a ferocity that left my head spinning and my pulse thundering. “Gotta grab my jacket. I’ll meet you outside.”
He headed to the coat room while I raced to the bar. There, I zipped a text off to Collin.
Me: leaving with him
Collin: Mr. Scorching?