Page 40 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

I could think of several answers to that question, none of which I was prepared to voice in present company. “I’m fine here, thanks.”

“Scared?” The word was delivered with just enough teasing challenge to make my jaw clench.

“Of making a fool of myself in front of a crowd of strangers? Absolutely.”

“Good thing I’m not a stranger then.” She moved closer, her hand still extended. “Trust me. One song, and if you hate it, you can come back to your whiskey and your brooding.”

I looked at her hand, then at her face, then at Conroy and Simone, who were watching this exchange with obvious interest. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to politely decline. I needed to maintain professional boundaries. It would be wise to avoid the kind of physical contact that would only make my inconvenient attraction to her more difficult to manage.

But there was something in her expression that made it impossible to say no.

Against my better judgment, I took her hand.

The dance floor was a writhing mass of bodies moving to a bass line that seemed designed to vibrate through your bones and into your soul. Clem led me through the crowd with confident ease, finding a spot where we had enough room to move without being completely crushed by the surrounding dancers.

“See?” she said, raising her voice over the music as she began to sway to the rhythm. “Not so terrifying.”

I started to respond, but then she moved closer. Suddenly I forgot what I had been planning to say. Her body was warm and soft against mine. The scent of her vanilla perfume or shampoo reached around and pretty much grabbed my dick. When she looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the strobing lights, I felt something fundamental shift in my chest.

I was in dangerous territory. It was the kind of situation that led to poor decisions and morning-after regrets. I should step back, make some excuse, return to the safety of our table and the familiar distance that professional relationships required.

Instead, I found myself moving with her, my hands settling on her waist like they had been there a hundred times before.

The music shifted to something slower but no less intense. She pressed closer, her palms flat against my chest as we found a rhythm that had nothing to do with the song and everything to do with the electricity crackling between us.

There were bodies all around us, but hers was the only one I could see and feel.

“You’re not as terrible at this as you claimed,” she said, her lips close enough to my ear that I could feel her breath against my skin.

“I’m full of surprises,” I managed, though my voice came out rougher than I intended.

She pulled back slightly to look at me. The look in her eyes made my pulse stutter. Heat. Passion. Desire.

“Yes, you are,” she murmured.

The song changed again, but we didn’t adjust our movements. If anything, we moved closer, her body fitting against mine like we’d been designed to complement each other. I was acutely aware of every point of contact.

It was madness. Professional suicide wrapped in a black dress and the kind of smile that could make a man forget his own name. I couldn’t bring myself to care about the consequences, though.