Page 11 of Working For Her Curves

“If you sing as badly as I think you’re about to, I’m going to pretend I don’t know you.”

“You asked for it,” I grin. Her eyes drop to my mouth when it happens and she bites her lip and my cock throbs against my jeans. Game. Fucking. On. “You’re welcome to try.”

The bass line kicks in.

I commit. For the first time since I was seventeen and stupid at a high school talent show, I commit. I don’t even remember moving, but I’m doing my best imitation of the Travolta strut—full hip roll, full shoulder, one hand pointing at the ceiling. The crowd whistles, a table near the back banging in rhythm. Noah is on his chair with both fists in the air, screaming my name like I just scored the winning touchdown.

Then Poppy moves.

She catches the beat on the second measure, and her hips roll to match mine. I almost miss my next line because she’s not just keeping up, she’s matching me exactly. She points her finger and shimmies and the crowd goes nuts. A woman near the front cups her hands around her mouth and screams. Poppy doesn’t flinch. She adds a spin that whips her hair around her shoulders and flares the dress at her thighs and sticks the landing, fires the finger point straight at me, and grins at me under stage light with her hair wild.

The air empties from my lungs.

The whole bar is clapping in rhythm. I should be watching the screen for my next line. I’m watching her. We’re moving to the same beat and her body is six inches from mine and I can feel her like she’s already touching me.

She knows every word. She belts the chorus with an unbridled enthusiasm that’s impressive on its own. Her voice is off-key, but she gives everything to her performance. She’s fearless and fun. Poppy isn’t holding anything back, and I’ve never been so attracted to a woman in my fucking life. My hands need to know what her waist feels like under that dress, and my mouth knows exactly where it wants to be. But watching her throw herself at something with her whole body and zero skill and that grin that won’t quit? This goes deeper than wanting to fuck her. This is deeper than her sexy sundress, deeper than the way she looks at me across the records trailer when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I’m so fucking head over heels for this woman.

The song ends. The crowd is stamping, whistling, giving us a standing ovation. Poppy grabs my arm to stay upright, flushed and gasping, and the laugh that tears out of her makes my hands clench at my sides because what I want to do with them would not be appropriate on a stage.

“Oh my god.” She’s bent forward, one hand on my bicep, fighting for breath. “You were amazing. I thought for sure you’d run off stage.”

“I’m committed.” My lungs are burning. Her hand is on my arm and every nerve under it is lit up and my skin wants more of her, all of her, every part of her that isn’t touching me yet.

She shoves my shoulder and her hip bumps mine and the contact jolts through me. We’re still at the edge of the stage, the next act taking the mic behind us, and her face is tipped up toward mine, color high in her cheeks, and her eyes haven’t left mine.

I put my hand on her waist.

The fabric is thin. Underneath it, her body is warm and solid and soft, and my fingers curve around the shape of her and I stop hearing the bar. Her eyes go dark and her weight leans into my palm and I can feel her ribs expanding with every breath, her body moving under my hand, and her heart is hammering just as much as mine is.

Her fingers tighten on my bicep instead of letting go, and her laugh fades, but her mouth stays open, her breathing rough. There’s nothing left between us—no joke, no pretense, no flimsy excuse about intake logs. Just her hand on my arm and both of us breathing too hard for standing still.

I lean close. My lips brush her hair. She shivers under my hand, a tremor I feel all the way up my arm and into my chest.

“You’re incredible and beautiful.” My voice is rough and low.

She turns her head. Her mouth is close enough that her breath is hot on my lips. My hand tightens on her waist. I can hear my own breathing, and it’s not steady.

“I know,” she says, raising her hand and stroking my cheek.

The night blurs after that. And then we’re outside in the warm evening, our arms brushing with every step because neither of us is trying to walk straight.

She swings her shoulder into mine and leaves it there. “You were truly amazing, Marty. I didn’t think you had that in you.”

“No regrets.” Her shoulder is warm against my arm, and I don’t want her to move it. I don’t want her to move any part of herself away from any part of me, and that want is so big that it’s crowding out everything else in my head.

She laughs, and I put my hand on the small of her back because I’m done restraining myself with her. The fabric is thin enough that I can feel the ridge of her spine, the heat of her skin through the cotton, and she leans into my side like she’s been waiting for me to make a move all night.

She glances up at me, and her face is open in a way I haven’t seen—all the sharp edges put away. “My friend came to check you out.”

“Did I pass?”

“She’ll tell me tomorrow.” Her fingers find the hem of my jacket sleeve and hold on. Just the fabric, but I feel it everywhere.

“And what about me?”

She stops walking. Turns under a streetlamp, half in light and half out of it, her chest rising and falling, her nipples tightly pushing through the cotton of her dress.

“You passed the second you walked in.”