“Are you listening to me?” I poke his back, more for attention than anything else.
Nothing. He says nothing. Though when he smooths the fabric of my dress over my bottom, securing the hem under his forearm, I feel slightly mollified and less exposed. But still embarrassed. Embarrassed and turned on. He starts up the stairs as though I weigh nothing, which really isn’t true. At five foot seven, I am not exactly what you’d call a small woman. I’m more well made. Urgh, there’s a phrase I never thought to hear again, let alone in my own head. It’s what my father had said the year I turned twelve when I’d towered over Alexander. For about five minutes.
Thrusting away the recollection, I twist my hair away from my face, staring at the gawking faces, smirks and knowing looks. Are these the same kind of looks I’d received the night I was drugged? No one stopped Giles. Except the man whose arms I’m in. At the thought, something pulses low in my belly. Or high, I suppose, depending on your relative perspective. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel it, feel me, throbbing against him. This shouldn’t be sexy. I shouldn’t be turned on.
But God help me, I am.
“Ow!” Suddenly, the tiny purse I’d been wearing at my hip flips and bounces from the top of my head. It feels like a less-than-divine punishment. Maybe the universe is trying to knock some sense into me. “This is ridiculous.” Both the bag and my mode of transport. “Are you listening to me?” I yell, thumping his back with the side of my fist.
He says nothing, again, though his arm bands tighter across my thighs, his fingers wrapping inward, securing me to him.
“Please, put me down now.” A different tack. A different delivery, this one oh-so reasonable. “I was going to come and see you. Honestly!” Still nothing. I slump back against him. “I may as well be talking to my arse,” I complain as I stare at his. With my hand still wrapped in his suit jacket, it’s pretty much in my line of vision. But there are much worse things to stare at. He does have a good set of glutes. I wonder if he does squats. And I wonder how he’d react if I squeezed them? I reach down and … suddenly don’t feel brazen enough.
“Oof!”
Up the three more stairs. He pauses, and there follows a brief exchange of words with another voice. A claret-colored velvet barrier rope is clipped closed behind us by a man in a suit who ignores me.
“Where are we going?” The music isn’t so loud here. We’re clearly in the VIP area, by the whiff of entitlement permeating the air. People here are far too important to pay more than a passing glance to a man carrying a woman over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Van, come on! Where are you taking me?” We’re obviously not heading for the exit.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“He speaks!” I splutter.
“Believe me, Peanut, he has a lot to say.”
My heart begins to flutter against his back, and I press my hand there, wondering if his is, too. How is he not in the least fatigued?
“I doubt I’ll be able to hear you,” I snipe. “I have too much blood in my head.”
And it seems we’re back to non-answers again.
In a flash of pique, I spread my arms across his back and dig my fingers into his sides. Hard. I mean, I dig my fingers hard, but he’s also hard there. Like a wall of muscle. A belt? It both annoys and impresses me that he doesn’t bend. Doesn’t make a sound. He could’ve at least giggled or let out a snort.
Another door is opened. This time we pause, Niko speaking again, not in English this time, but that’s all I can gather because my brain feels like it’s going to explode from all the blood swishing around in there. Except, I wriggle, and then realize my bum must be staring at this other … person. This other man. How mortify—
Ohh.
Niko’s hand strokes down over my left bum cheek in a soft yet masterful caress. This must be why dogs … No. Stop that! I can’t relax against him like a bloody pet! Also, is he seriously having a conversation while fondling me? Before I can protest or poke him again, he moves and a door closes behind us this time. I don’t dare my lift my head to see if the other man is looking, choosing to stare at his shiny shoes this time.
What in the world is going on here? I feel like I’ve been whipped out of my life into the life of someone else. Since when have I been the kind of woman who inspires jealousy and strong actions from men? The men who’ve drifted into my life are the kind more likely to present me with a bunch of wilted chrysanthemums and think that gives them license to feel me up in the back of a cab. The truth is, despite my protestations and my complaints to be put down, there’s something about being hauled into a man’s arms that makes a girl feel all fluttery. Especially in the knicker department. I know, I know. My feminist membership card is about to be revoked. But until then, every part of me that’s touching Niko is enjoying the hell out of the experience.