“You’re so hot.” From behind, unfamiliar hands envelop my waist, his deep voice at my ear. “Is this okay?”
I nod without speaking, pressing my hands over his for control, my insides seeming to pulse in time with the deep bass. I keep moving, dancing, as though it’s not a stranger behind me but someone I long for. Long to kiss. Long to feel.
The man’s lips brush my neck, and I stifle a moan. But the music is loud, right? He wouldn’t have heard. If he did, he wouldn’t know that sound wasn’t his. He’s just a place card, and his hands are holding onto me for someone else. The thoughts are slightly shocking but also anticipatory. Niko is here. If he wants me, he’ll come for me. Again. I’ll slide my hands into his hair, press my mouth to his, and I won’t let him push me away this time.
The song changes seamlessly to something slower, the man behind me rocking my hips from side to side. I close my eyes and imagine his hands are Niko’s. Would he dance with me? Would he slide my hair from my neck to press his lips there? I lose myself in the music and the feel of the man as we dance, my body no longer commanded by the music but by this pounding, internal beat. A beat of need.
“Do you want to get out of here?”
No. No, I don’t. My eyes flutter open, but it’s not the stranger’s words that make them do so. It’s an awareness. An anticipation. A sixth sense.
From across the dance floor, Niko’s eyes bore into me, corkscrew sharp, burning with the kind of intensity that makes me a little breathless. I take a step when the hands on my hips tighten with a murmured protest, the words barely registering.
A strobe light passes over the crowd, highlighting Niko’s sharp cheekbones and the determination etched on his face. The crowd parts with barely a ripple, the sharp lines of his suit marking him out as dangerous. Just as clearly as exotic stripes would. He moves across the dance floor with the grace and surety of a tiger. God alone knows, Niko Vanyin is my favorite predator. And I want to be devoured by him.
This thing between us is coming to an end, I’m sure. This push and pull, this dance of denial. It ends tonight.
But will his friendship with my brother end along with it?
Selfishly, I push the thought to the back of my head, indulging in only the carnal. Will he use his fingers in the place of those cuffs? Press my wrists above my head to prevent my hands from wandering?
As he comes to a stop in front of me, my insides react like a florist’s ribbon drawn across the edge of sharp scissors.
“Take your hands off her.” His mouth shapes the words, the music almost too loud to hear them.
“Hey, man—” Those words I hear as I try to step away from the man behind me, the man I haven’t once set eyes on, to find his grip almost piercing.
Niko barely tilts his head. Is it a trick of the strobe that makes him look venomous? He’s a man of secrets. I know this on some instinctive, animal level. And one of those secrets is this side of him.
The man with murder in his eyes makes my heart gallop as he reaches out and cups my face. He leans in, his cheek almost pressing mine. “Take your hands off her,” he says, not shouts, “before I drag you outside and break every bone in your body.”
The threat pounds low in my belly for reasons I don’t understand.
“She’s dancing with me,” the man blusters.
“Can’t dance with broken feet. Can’t hold with mangled hands.” Van’s tone is ice. His words fire. My partner’s fingers retract with stuttered apologies, and I find myself almost pushed into him.
“Peanut.” He doesn’t smile as he steadies me. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing?” I offer lamely, then realize I haven’t really moved since he appeared. “This is a dance floor,” I add with a little unconcerned flick of my shoulder, despite the way his hands still hold my arms.
“You like to dance?” My heart soars as he reaches out and slides a lock of hair from my cheek. I open my mouth to respond, distracted by this tender act of what turns out to be subterfuge. He dips, and suddenly, I find my body balanced over his shoulder.
“Hey!” My legs dangle in the air, and I’m pretty sure by the sudden cool draft, I’m flashing my underwear. “Van!” I brush the mass of fallen hair from my face, grabbing handfuls of the back of his jacket, spoiling the line of his expensive tailoring. “Van, put me down.” Pressing my palms against his back, I push up and wonder why no one seems to want to challenge him. I stop, Tamsin, laughing and waving and generally looking like she’s enjoying the spectacle, though the crowds of dancers swallow the space behind us as soon as we pass.