Page 4 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
But—
Why should I care?
That "why" hit harder than the shame, hotter, shoving the wave right back.
I didn't look away.
Neither did he.
I slowed down. Not from fear. Slow had more power—I knew that. Ballet taught me that. The hardest thing was never speed. It was slow. Taking your time when everyone was waiting.
I let my hips turn slowly. Small movements, but low. My fingers started at my collarbone, traced down the curve of my chest, over the rise and fall, stopping at the thin lace tie at my waist. I hooked it. Tugged gently. Let it loosen.
Not fast. Slow. Bit by bit, pulling the tie free, dangling it in the air. The fabric at my chest lost support on one side, sagging down. The side of my breast was fully exposed. Only the front barely covered, fabric stretched to its limit, rising and falling with my breath, like it could fall any second.
Five seconds later, I let go.
Left the tie hanging. Fabric crooked, barely clinging, about to fall.
The crowd roared, but I didn't hear it.
I only watched him.
His finger stopped.
The one that had been tapping the armrest. Stopped.
If I hadn't been staring, I wouldn't have noticed. But I did. That movement made something tighten inside me, then a scorching satisfaction I couldn't name.
Not so cool after all, are you?
I smiled at him. Not pleasing. Real. With a hint of cruelty. Then I put my finger in my mouth, slowly sucked on it while facing him, tongue circling, wet sounds clear in the gaps between music.
His hand tightened.
The one holding the glass. Tightened.
I won.
I turned around. Put my back to him. Walked slowly toward the other side of the stage.
I knew he was still watching.
When you turn your back on someone, you can tell if they're staring. Two completely different feelings. Right now, I felt his gaze like something solid, landing on the back of my neck, between my shoulder blades, down my spine, stopping at the small of my back, at my hips, at the black lace edge digging into the top of my thighs.
I didn't turn around.
But I walked slowly, every step hitting the bass drum beat dead center, letting my hips sway with each step. When I reached the edge of the stage, I stopped, bent down to pick up the bills—posture lifting my hips high, aimed right at his direction. I stayed like that, slow, picking them up one by one, letting my body shift with each movement.
I heard a sound from his direction. Faint, barely audible.
Breathing.
Heavy.
Like holding back at the limit.
I straightened. Looked back at him.
