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The music changes to Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas is You, and he grins. “Come on. Show me what you’ve got.”
Ooh, he can really dance. As he realizes that I’m not terrible on my feet, he picks up the pace, spinning me away from him before drawing me back into his arms. Whoa, I’m glad I’m not wearing high heels like Missie—I’d be off them in seconds. But he’s careful to keep me tight against him most of the time as we move to the music. Our hips wind together, and we dance to the whole song, until it changes again to another slow one, Judy Garland’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.
Once again, he pulls me close, smiling. “Do you want to sit down?” he asks.
“No. Um… unless you do?”
He shakes his head. Thrilled, I give into the impulse I’ve had since we went onto the dance floor, and I brush the short hair on the back of his nape with my thumb. In response, he flares his hand at the base of my spine and pulls me the last fraction of inch toward him, so our bodies are flush.
“You can dance,” I tell him, a tad breathless.
“Well, we were hardly doing the Samba, but after the amount of whisky we’ve had, I’m just glad I didn’t tread on your toes.”
I giggle. “Not at all. You were great.”
“Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance. Or so Confucius says.”
“I have to say you handle your weapon exceptionally well.”
That makes him laugh. He has beautiful, straight white teeth and a dazzling smile, and my comment makes him look at me with renewed attention.
Mmm, things are getting interesting.
I look around, at the couples swaying to the music, the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree, and the glitter in the air that’s floating down from the balloons in the net above us. Some of it’s on James’s hair, making it sparkle in the fairy lights.
I’m tired of being practical and dull. I’ll never look like a model, or be extroverted enough to draw the eye of someone like this permanently, but right here, right now, he’s dancing with me, and I know I’m not imagining the heat between us.
“It’s probably the whisky talking,” I tell him bravely. “But they do say dance is a vertical expression of a horizontal thought.”
He smiles. Wow, his eyes are exceptional, a beautiful deep turquoise, like a tropical sea.
“Do they now?” he murmurs, his gaze sliding to my lips.
I let them curve up, then moisten them with the tip of my tongue. “They do. And I can understand why, dancing with you.”
His gaze comes back to mine. Mmm, I like being this close to him. If I were to lift up a little onto my tiptoes, I’d be able to kiss his jaw. I don’t, but I could. He’s pressed against me all the way down. I can even feel his wallet in the pocket of his jeans. At least, I think it’s his wallet.
Without meaning to, I give a short laugh, and he looks down at me. “What?”
I think about what Gaby said about him being generously endowed, and I bite my bottom lip. “Nothing.”
“Come on, spill the beans.”
“Just something Gaby said.”
“About what?”
I shake my head.
“Aroha…” His deep voice scolds me. “Tell me what you laughed at.”
I move my hips against his. “Is that your wallet in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?”
His eyes flare, as if someone’s turned up his desire like the flame of a Bunsen burner, and now it’s burning white-hot.
“You want to get out of here?” he murmurs against my ear.
I nod eagerly.
