in his eyes, just like in her dream—made her palms wet and something bad prickle the length of her spine. No, no, she couldn’t dance. She wasn’t even sure if her legs still moved in that way. Usually they knew only one thing—forward, forward, forward. RUN.
“Oh no, I—”
Was he creeping closer? It felt like it.
“I think you wanna dance.”
Oh dear Lord why were her cheeks heating, again? As though he’d asked her something else, like— I think you wanna fuck.
To which the only answer was yes. Yes I do. I don’t remember that dance any better than this one, but that’s okay. I think you’re going to help me figure it out. It’s just like riding a bicycle, right?
Not that Jamie was about to give her the chance to fathom it out. Instead, he just grabbed a hold of her when she was least expecting it, right in the middle of thoughts of bikes and fucking and who knew what else. And even worse, it didn’t feel bad to be grabbed, exactly. Shocking, yes. Thrilling, certainly.
But not bad—or at least, not in the way it had been before. Now it was just bad because she’d had a sex dream about him and he had a hand on her waist and a hand in her hand, as though they’d decided to take part in some 18 th Century barn dance.
He even operated her that way, dipping her down on the horizontal then back up again in a way that should have made her stomach lurch but somehow didn’t. The whirling didn’t even make her stomach lurch, bizarrely, though there was plenty of the jolting movement.
He whirled her around the broad oak kitchen table, then when he got bored of that—or maybe just realized that she wasn’t going to puke, start screaming, or go rigid with fear—he whirled her around the living room, too.
He was a good dancer. Better than good. Somehow he dragged her into good, too, even though her feet felt like tripping, sticking clods of mud next to his light as air ones. He also knew just how to swing her around to avoid various perilous pieces of furniture, and when he skirted her past a particularly vicious standard lamp she couldn’t help it.
A laugh popped out.
It almost made him jerk to a stop—maybe because she felt surprise go through him, too. Maybe because her entire body thrilled to hear the sound. Part of her wanted to hate it—that weird, giddy, frivolous thing—but most of her couldn’t. It had been too long. It came out too bright and human and natural instead of the forced thing Kelsey had sometimes sprouted, when she’d said something sarcastic or mordant.
There was nothing sarcastic or mordant about this. And it came again when he spun her around so quickly she had to clasp at him, tightly—as though she was afraid, only not. Not.
The room whizzed by and everything became colors, and she could smell that cinnamon-y scent of him—only like pancakes, too, delicious pancakes—and for just a second she thought he might…do something. His hand was on her waist. His face was in her hair. If he moved even the slightest bit he could have—
When the door banged, she pushed away from him without even thinking about it. Not even a second’s worth of consideration or the slightest understanding of why he had to be away from her, after whole enormous minutes of unfettered dancing.
He just did. Because the front door had banged. And Blake had come in, with his electric eyes that sometimes seemed so empty and drained, and his only occasionally vulnerable mouth.
He didn’t look cross, though, exactly, when he saw them both. He looked more…bemused, she thought. Like he’d caught them doing something wonderful and terrible all at the same time.
She could hardly catch her breath to assess his expression fully—and for some reason couldn’t stop tugging at her sweatshirt, as though the thing had risen up to reveal her tits or something—but there was an undercurrent, there. Of pleasure or being pleased or…God. She didn’t know.
Why did she even care if he was pleased, or
“Oh no, I—”
Was he creeping closer? It felt like it.
“I think you wanna dance.”
Oh dear Lord why were her cheeks heating, again? As though he’d asked her something else, like— I think you wanna fuck.
To which the only answer was yes. Yes I do. I don’t remember that dance any better than this one, but that’s okay. I think you’re going to help me figure it out. It’s just like riding a bicycle, right?
Not that Jamie was about to give her the chance to fathom it out. Instead, he just grabbed a hold of her when she was least expecting it, right in the middle of thoughts of bikes and fucking and who knew what else. And even worse, it didn’t feel bad to be grabbed, exactly. Shocking, yes. Thrilling, certainly.
But not bad—or at least, not in the way it had been before. Now it was just bad because she’d had a sex dream about him and he had a hand on her waist and a hand in her hand, as though they’d decided to take part in some 18 th Century barn dance.
He even operated her that way, dipping her down on the horizontal then back up again in a way that should have made her stomach lurch but somehow didn’t. The whirling didn’t even make her stomach lurch, bizarrely, though there was plenty of the jolting movement.
He whirled her around the broad oak kitchen table, then when he got bored of that—or maybe just realized that she wasn’t going to puke, start screaming, or go rigid with fear—he whirled her around the living room, too.
He was a good dancer. Better than good. Somehow he dragged her into good, too, even though her feet felt like tripping, sticking clods of mud next to his light as air ones. He also knew just how to swing her around to avoid various perilous pieces of furniture, and when he skirted her past a particularly vicious standard lamp she couldn’t help it.
A laugh popped out.
It almost made him jerk to a stop—maybe because she felt surprise go through him, too. Maybe because her entire body thrilled to hear the sound. Part of her wanted to hate it—that weird, giddy, frivolous thing—but most of her couldn’t. It had been too long. It came out too bright and human and natural instead of the forced thing Kelsey had sometimes sprouted, when she’d said something sarcastic or mordant.
There was nothing sarcastic or mordant about this. And it came again when he spun her around so quickly she had to clasp at him, tightly—as though she was afraid, only not. Not.
The room whizzed by and everything became colors, and she could smell that cinnamon-y scent of him—only like pancakes, too, delicious pancakes—and for just a second she thought he might…do something. His hand was on her waist. His face was in her hair. If he moved even the slightest bit he could have—
When the door banged, she pushed away from him without even thinking about it. Not even a second’s worth of consideration or the slightest understanding of why he had to be away from her, after whole enormous minutes of unfettered dancing.
He just did. Because the front door had banged. And Blake had come in, with his electric eyes that sometimes seemed so empty and drained, and his only occasionally vulnerable mouth.
He didn’t look cross, though, exactly, when he saw them both. He looked more…bemused, she thought. Like he’d caught them doing something wonderful and terrible all at the same time.
She could hardly catch her breath to assess his expression fully—and for some reason couldn’t stop tugging at her sweatshirt, as though the thing had risen up to reveal her tits or something—but there was an undercurrent, there. Of pleasure or being pleased or…God. She didn’t know.
Why did she even care if he was pleased, or
Similar Books
