her depth.
There’d been no men since Vegas, and the men in Vegas hadn’t been men at all, only bodies with faces indistinct and names unmemorable, and the man before that was…too memorable. Even then, Declan was different from all of them—better, too. He wouldn’t see her as merely a willing body or sex on display.
The song ended as abruptly as it had begun, and, without thought, Fiona fell into his arms—open arms ready to catch her, as if he already knew this was how she ended every song she danced. A hug for her partner, in thanks, in happiness.
Being held by Declan was…new. Terrifying. Thrilling.
The singer announced a slow number in cheerful Spanglish as Fiona stood in the circle of Declan’s arms, happiness warming all the places tequila-fueled hormones couldn’t reach, deep inside. He smiled at her, a sideways quirk of mobile lips, linking his fingers at the small of her back.
She leaned against his hold, hands drifting from where they’d landed on his shoulders to the hot, naked skin of his perfect biceps. His pale blue tee, bearing the faded screen print of a propeller plane over the words Fly With Me , stretched oh, so nicely across the planes of his chest, highlighting the firm musculature she’d had the earlier pleasure of testing with her fingertips. The shirt fabric was loose around his waist, highlighting the innate leanness that his costuming tended to hide and that his height and breadth often belied. He wore the same faded jeans he’d had on that first morning in the makeup trailer, the ones that reminded a woman that, yes, that’s exactly how jeans are supposed to be worn.
Because damn .
Then there was that face. He had such a face, with his black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. He’d never pass for Prince Charming, but Fiona had a suspicion that he could give Lucifer a run for his money. Lips she wanted to kiss, stubble she wanted to rub against her cheek, a jaw she wanted to cup in both hands as she pulled him in for that kiss…but there wasn’t going to be a kiss. Only a dance.
A dance, with a side of conversation, it seemed. “Are you seein’ anyone?”
She shook her head as they moved effortlessly into the next dance together, a jazzy number reminiscent of the big-band standards of the fifties. Seeing anyone? Ha. As if she had the time to date.
Her subconscious body-checked her brain. As if you had the confidence to date.
Stupid subconscious.
With one hand on her back, his other holding hers, he didn’t allow her the same space the mambo had demanded. “Think I’m gonna need you to say it out loud, darlin’.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m single.” When relief relaxed his expression, she was goaded into adding, “And I like it that way.” Single was a good look on her. A partner would only complicate the routine she had going, test the controls she’d so carefully constructed over the past three years, forcing her to make room for someone else in her life and potentially losing all that she’d fought to rebuild in the process.
So why was she tempted to clear a space for Declan? That nonsense would have to stop. Immediately. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m just telling you right now—bad idea.”
He wove them through the other couples on the floor, every step and turn aligning their bodies another inch, until she felt as though both her shirt and his were on the verge of combustion. “Why?”
If their shirts disappeared, it would be her flesh against his. Her stomach against his.
Her insides knotted at the prospect. Not in a million years . “Because I’m not ever going to be easy.” Not again.
His head dipped toward hers, and she jerked back…in time to see a hurt look flash across his face. Slower this time, he bent, his lips hovering over her ear. “Never said I wanted easy.”
She scoffed. “All men want easy.”
“Do I look like all men to you?” Before she could manage a retort, he shook his
There’d been no men since Vegas, and the men in Vegas hadn’t been men at all, only bodies with faces indistinct and names unmemorable, and the man before that was…too memorable. Even then, Declan was different from all of them—better, too. He wouldn’t see her as merely a willing body or sex on display.
The song ended as abruptly as it had begun, and, without thought, Fiona fell into his arms—open arms ready to catch her, as if he already knew this was how she ended every song she danced. A hug for her partner, in thanks, in happiness.
Being held by Declan was…new. Terrifying. Thrilling.
The singer announced a slow number in cheerful Spanglish as Fiona stood in the circle of Declan’s arms, happiness warming all the places tequila-fueled hormones couldn’t reach, deep inside. He smiled at her, a sideways quirk of mobile lips, linking his fingers at the small of her back.
She leaned against his hold, hands drifting from where they’d landed on his shoulders to the hot, naked skin of his perfect biceps. His pale blue tee, bearing the faded screen print of a propeller plane over the words Fly With Me , stretched oh, so nicely across the planes of his chest, highlighting the firm musculature she’d had the earlier pleasure of testing with her fingertips. The shirt fabric was loose around his waist, highlighting the innate leanness that his costuming tended to hide and that his height and breadth often belied. He wore the same faded jeans he’d had on that first morning in the makeup trailer, the ones that reminded a woman that, yes, that’s exactly how jeans are supposed to be worn.
Because damn .
Then there was that face. He had such a face, with his black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin. He’d never pass for Prince Charming, but Fiona had a suspicion that he could give Lucifer a run for his money. Lips she wanted to kiss, stubble she wanted to rub against her cheek, a jaw she wanted to cup in both hands as she pulled him in for that kiss…but there wasn’t going to be a kiss. Only a dance.
A dance, with a side of conversation, it seemed. “Are you seein’ anyone?”
She shook her head as they moved effortlessly into the next dance together, a jazzy number reminiscent of the big-band standards of the fifties. Seeing anyone? Ha. As if she had the time to date.
Her subconscious body-checked her brain. As if you had the confidence to date.
Stupid subconscious.
With one hand on her back, his other holding hers, he didn’t allow her the same space the mambo had demanded. “Think I’m gonna need you to say it out loud, darlin’.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m single.” When relief relaxed his expression, she was goaded into adding, “And I like it that way.” Single was a good look on her. A partner would only complicate the routine she had going, test the controls she’d so carefully constructed over the past three years, forcing her to make room for someone else in her life and potentially losing all that she’d fought to rebuild in the process.
So why was she tempted to clear a space for Declan? That nonsense would have to stop. Immediately. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m just telling you right now—bad idea.”
He wove them through the other couples on the floor, every step and turn aligning their bodies another inch, until she felt as though both her shirt and his were on the verge of combustion. “Why?”
If their shirts disappeared, it would be her flesh against his. Her stomach against his.
Her insides knotted at the prospect. Not in a million years . “Because I’m not ever going to be easy.” Not again.
His head dipped toward hers, and she jerked back…in time to see a hurt look flash across his face. Slower this time, he bent, his lips hovering over her ear. “Never said I wanted easy.”
She scoffed. “All men want easy.”
“Do I look like all men to you?” Before she could manage a retort, he shook his
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