I don’t dance like this. I don’t dress like this.
But you know what? I’m kind of loving this version of me. I should behermore often.
My heart drops for a split second when the crowd shifts and swallows Owen. But when I see him reappear—closer now—my heart jumps back into place, beating solely for him.
The overhead lights flash blue, then pink, then green, flickering across his face as he approaches. Sweat beads at the base of his throat from the humidity of the island and the heat of the club. My mouth waters as I watch his shirt stretch across his chest with every step he takes.
I don’t think it’s possible to ever get tired of staring at him.
It’s euphoric to feel this way about another human. To feel like you’re seeing them for the very first time every time you lay eyes on them.
When Owen finally reaches me, he presses the cold cup into my hand and leans in.
“Hydrate,” he mutters in my ear, voice low enough to give me an orgasm on the spot.
I shiver internally as his hot breath blows against my skin.
“Yes, sir,” I joke before gulping down half of it.
Never has plain water tasted so divine in my entire life. I feel Owen’s eyes as he watches me with a hungry gaze that makes me think he wishes he were the water sliding down my throat.
“You good?” he asks, eyes never leaving my face.
“Yeah.” I nod casually. “I’m totally fine.”
“You sure?” He chuckles. “You looked like you were about to pass out earlier.”
I furrow my brows. “I was not.”
“Yes, you were,” he doubles down. “You were swaying like a damn palm tree.”
“That’s called dancing, Owen.”
He arches a brow.
“With your eyes closed?” he teases. “No. That’s called vertical napping.”
“Whatever,” I roll my eyes, my laugh getting drowned out byElectric Feelby MGMT blaring through the speakers.
I forgot how much I love this song.
Before I can object, Owen takes my empty cup and sets it aside with his own onto a nearby ledge. When he turns back to me and steps into my little bubble, my heart lunges forward like it’s trying to meet him halfway, my body desperate for him to touch me.
“Dance with me,” he requests, his voice deep and gravelly.
All I can do is nod, suddenly incapable of forming words.
His fingers find my waist as he spins me around, pulling me with him onto the packed dancefloor.
My arms instinctively wrap around his neck as we’re sucked into the belly of the crowd. His strong arms slide around my waist, pulling me flush to his chest. His body is warm and solid against mine, anchoring me in a sea of chaos.
There are sticky bodies surrounding every inch of us. There’s loud music overpowering every other sound in the room. There’s the overwhelming scent of perfume and sweat and sunscreen.
But still, all I see is Owen. All I feel is him. In this moment, he’s the center of my world. And because I’m sick, I let myself pretend that I’m the center of his.
At first, we drift back and forth, laughing when some drunk couple bumps into us.
But seconds later, the mood shifts as the lights dim to a deep, sultry blue. Time starts to move in slow motion as the air grows thick, making it difficult to swallow.
