The two women who had hemmed him in seemed to have noticed that they no longer had his scant attention, and had doubled down on their efforts to get it back, but all he could feel was mildly repelled. He didn’t want to be touched anymore. Didn’t think this was fun anymore.
He tried to extricate himself from the sandwich he was stuck in, but as he sidestepped, so did they, thinking it was a new dance step. A glance over at Alex and Nathanael told him that they were sardonically enjoying his predicament. He threw Alex a pleading look, and like a good brother Alex signaled a waiter and whispered to him, gesturing in William’s direction.
The waiter nodded and came over, whispering to the women in turn. With squeals, they slid away, following the waiter as if William no longer existed, no longer mattered.
Alex came to his side, laughing.
“What was that about?” William wanted to know.
“Those ladies just won themselves a year’s free travel courtesy of the family empire—you.”
“You dirty dog,” he said admiringly, and they shared a fist bump and grinned at each other. It was times like this that William was most grateful that the bond between him and his brother had been repaired, strengthened, since their awful breach years before.
Shaundra, who was hanging over the balcony, shouted out above the pounding of reggae music. “Jay! You gotta come see this!”
Jacyn immediately leaped to her feet, brushed past her husband with a friendly smack on his butt, and went to stand near her friend. They were both bent over, staring down onto the main dance floor below, clapping with excitement and exchanging delighted grins.
He knew before he even arrived at the railing what he was going to see.
Sienna and Naisha were down there, completely engaged in the reggae rhythm that poured over them. A small circle had formed around them as the women gave up their souls to the music. His vision narrowed, and Naisha was all he could see.
That dress. That goddamn dress, rippling down her bronze skin like oil on water, shimmering with every undulation of her delicious hips. Knees bent, perfectly round butt jutting out, she went down low, so low he feared she would lose her balance in those heels, but with a swivel she rose again, thighs strong, belly rolling.
His head began to hurt, and it wasn’t because he’d been drinking. Matter of fact, his mouth was dry, and he desperately needed something to slake his thirst. But he didn’t even dare look away long enough to signal a passing waiter.
Naisha played to her audience as they clapped in slow rhythm to the music, and a single strap slipped off her shoulder. What was it with her and these straps, he thought irritably. Someone should tape them down! At least that way the world’s gaze wouldn’t be riveted to her collarbone, or drawn to her throat.
He didn’t know if he was more aroused by the vision she presented or irate at the fact that other men could see her, too.
Then some burly jackass in a sweat-stained shirt positioned himself behind Naisha, and began to move clumsily against her, in a grotesque parody of dance.
Irate it is,he decided.
He couldn’t even feel the impact of his feet on the steps as he took them three at a time. He knew he was shoving aside onlookers and spilling drinks, but told himself that Alex, his faithful fixer, could buy them all a bottle of Dom, and everyone would be happy.
Right now, all he could think of was Naisha.
He had no idea what the man looked like up close. If the police had called him to identify him in a lineup, he’d have to admit he had no clue. All he could see was this hulking shape braced against his woman and his world turned red.
With a single shove, a flat palm to the man’s chest, he removed the obstacle. “Wot, mate?” the man demanded in indignation. But a brutal glare in the man’s direction and he slunk off, leaving Naisha creep-free once again.
The song changed, and another came on, this one more explicit, more sensual than the last. Naisha was still dancing, her back to him, just moving, swiveling, grooving.
He felt himself harden as his gaze became trapped by the roll of her hips. He had a vision of himself poised over her, ready to bury himself deep between those solid thighs. The thought of what it would feel like as her tight, moist walls closed around him almost sent him mad.
He pressed against her butt, falling in with the rhythm, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her possessively to him. He, and he alone, was going to dance with her tonight.
With a slight turn of her head, she looked at him, and her red-painted lips pulled back in cruel amusement. She leaned forward to give herself leverage, and pressed that round, full, perfect backside of hers against the hard ridge at the front of his pants. And his suspicious were correct. She wasn’t wearing panties.
She tortured him. Her movements were an unabashed imitation of lovemaking. The only things standing between them were his clothing and that goddamn obscene strip of fabric she thought was a dress.
William closed his eyes, imagining himself slipping into her, then drawing back and slipping in again.
Naisha achieved the impossible then, as her upper half began to move independently of her lower half, as if they were separate entities. With his palm against her taut belly, he could feel the muscles of her abdomen contract and relax. Contract and relax.
Then he felt something else, a staccato vibration that told him she was laughing.
At him.