My hips sway to the beat. My hands slide through my hair. My eyes never leave his. He cuts through the crowd like it doesn't exist, just like he did when we found each other in that nightclub in Malaga. He moves like nothing matters except closing the distance between us.
People step aside without him asking. He stops at the edge of the bar, directly below me, and looks up.
And the expression on his face?—
Heat. Hunger. Want so intense it makes the air between us feel electric.
"She'll tease you, she'll unease you..."
The lyrics hang between us like a challenge.
I extend my hand down to him. It’s half invitation, half dare.
And he takes it without hesitation.
His palm is warm, callused, rough against my softer skin. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, down my spine, pooling low in my belly.
"Dance with me," I say.
“How much have you had to drink?"
"Lost count after four." I lean closer, and his eyes darken further. "Dance with me anyway."
For a moment, he just looks at me. Like he's weighing options.Then his hands find my waist—firm, possessive, certain—and he lifts me down.
Not helps.
Lifts.
As if I weigh nothing and he could hold me there forever. My body slides against his on the way down, and the friction makes my breath catch. When my feet hit the ground, we're chest to chest.
Face to face. No space. No air.
Nothing between us but want.
The music pulses around us, but I barely hear it. All I can focus on is him. The heat of his body. The way his hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressing just above my hipbones. The way he's looking at me like there’s not a single soul in this entire bar.
We dance but it's not really dancing. It's foreplay disguised as movement.
His body moves with mine, matching my rhythm, anticipating every shift and sway. We're not touching more than necessary, but somehow it feels more intimate than if we were pressed together.
What’s happening between us is charged. Electric. Dangerous.
I let myself notice everything I've been trying not to see. The breadth of his shoulders under that black t-shirt. The way it stretches across his chest when he moves. The lines of his arms, muscles shifting beneath skin as his hands hover near my waist. The way his hips move—controlled, deliberate, absolutely sinful.
How he watches me like I’m something he wants to ruin. Heat coils tight and low in my stomach. Pure, undiluted longing. My breathing goes shallow and suddenly my skin feels too tight.
“You okay?" he asks softly, leaning in so I can hear him over the music.
His breath ghosts across my neck, and I shiver.
I shake my head slightly, but I'm smiling. "Better now."
“Landslide”starts—it’s slow, something that requires less space—and his hands find my waist again.
But this time, he doesn't let go.
This time, he pulls me closer. We're not even pretending now. Not maintaining polite distance or dancing like friends. We're bodies pressed together, swaying to music neither of us is really hearing.
