Page 71 of Stud

My face felt flush, my armpits a tad dewier than ideal in my vintage dress, but totally worth it after dancing with the girls. I also wasn’t ready to call it quits. But the funky pop mix blended into a romantic song. The kind of music that had me wanting to close my eyes and sink into my lover’s arms. Not Rachel’s or Gwen’s arms.

A tap on my back had my shoulders bunching toward my ears. Some players didn’t know how to take no for an answer. They also didn’t know who they were dealing with. Evil glare in place, I swiveled. “You must not value your nuts, assho—”

Except he wasn’t an asshole. He was Owen.

Bent forward at the waist, my charmer extended a hand in invitation. “May I have this dance?”

A small circle had formed around us, my friends looking like walking emojis with their heart eyes popping out. All I could do was stare. At Owen. I still couldn’t get over how handsome he was in his white dress shirt, black vest and slacks tailored to his fine physique, those wing-tipped shoes pushing him from hot to hotter.

The Rat Pack had a new member.

I should have crowed yes on the spot, fallen into his inviting embrace. Instead I said, “If I have to lift my arms while dancing, I might clear half the room.”

Not giving me a choice, he invaded my space. He placed one of my hands on his solid shoulder, the other in his outstretched hand. “You smell beautiful. You look beautiful. And you’re going to dance with me, doll.”

My breathy “Okay” was barely out when we began to move. Our first few steps were awkward. His body was stiff. My limbs were as graceful as a hippo’s. All my ballet training disappeared in a whoosh. He tried to guide us to the left, but my instincts led me toward the right.

I cringed. “Shoot.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“Oof.” He winced as I stepped on his toe. He tightened his hold on me, and whispered, “Let me lead, Ainsley. I got you.”

Fred and Ginger we were not, but my lack of coordination wasn’t because we were dancing our first dance in front of strangers. I just had to relax. Quit trying to halt the natural flow of our rhythm, exactly how’d I’d behaved in our relationship, stressing about Caroline’s text and all the ways Owen could hurt me.

Inhaling his cologne of baked apple, musk, and man, I pictured my father giving him a bear hug. I remembered every time Owen had opened a door for me or asked me if something was wrong, sensing my sour mood. I stopped fighting his movements. Stopped trying to slow our momentum. I held my man, followed his lead, and gave myself over to the notion of us.

The disco ball above receded, the people and chatter fell away.

We didn’t dance to the music. We became the music.

The romantic notes wove through my toes and twisted with my hair. The music strummed under my skin, binding me to him. Owen held me closer than a traditional waltz called for, but I loved how his heart whispered truths against my cheek, the heat of his hand on my back. We spun in circles as the sensual lyrics spoke of falling in love and tripping on your words and being overwhelmed by the woman in your life.

Did that mean Owen was overwhelmed by me? In love with me?

He slowed us down and changed direction, dipping me slightly, just enough for me to glimpse the affection in his warm eyes, then we were gliding again. Rising. Falling. Lights spinning. He turned me into the ballerina of my dreams.

As our confidence grew, he clasped my hand and twirled me in a circle under his arm, once. Twice. My fringe skirt whirled, my belly dipped. My hair was a riot until he caught me against his chest, not skipping a beat as our steps swept us in larger circles.

We were dancing on a cloud.

The song softened, the last chorus drawing us closer. A final dip sent me arching over his arm. A hush fell. My heart soared. He pulled me up slowly, meeting me partway. His lips closed over mine in a sensual rhythm, as spellbinding as our dance. His tongue stroked and swirled, mine following his lead. I never wanted to come up for air.

Someone hollered, “Get a room!”

Applause exploded, the room erupting into cheers as pop tunes returned. The dance floor filled up again, bodies crowding us. I tugged him closer, couldn’t let an inch of space between us. “Get me to your room.”

Our clothes disappeared in a hurry. We didn’t make it to his bedroom, barely managed to get up the stairs. He lay sprawled on his hardwood floor, me on top of him. I was dazed, wild with lust, practically clawing at him. I wanted my mouth everywhere at once, a tigress come to claim what was mine.

He pushed up to suck a path down my neck and breast, working my nipple until I panted his name. All that remained was our underwear, the thick line of him rutting against me in the most delicious way.

I needed him inside me. Just plain needed him.

Rocking harder, I dug my fingers into his neck. His arms locked around my back as our next kiss turned dirty. Depraved. His teeth nicked my bottom lip in a sharp tug, a sting that had me pulling at his hair while trying to figure out how to get my panties off without letting go.

On a harsh inhale, I pulled back. Our chests heaved, his hungry gaze as savage as mine. There was warmth under the passion, too. A connection I never imagined finding with a man. We stared at each other, breathing hard, letting our eyes say everything we weren’t.