Page 82 of Wild Abandon

“But if I had, would it be romantic?”

“No. It would be total cheese!”

“Noted.” He laughs into his glass, and I take a huge gulp from my own. “Do you want to dance?”

“You dance?”

“I dance.”

So, we dance. The place got packed quickly, and we have to move through bodies to get to the front of the stage where a band is performing. There is free space on the dance floor, most people just standing and enjoying the music. We do that thing where you stand and sway, our eyes mostly on the band, not each other. At least, mine are on the band. Looking to my side, I see Nate. He’s focused solely on me. I have no choice but to acknowledge my evening companion and draw my body toward his.

And draw it does. As soon as I am facing him, truly in orbit of him, his hands find the sides of my dress, and they pull me in, hold me tight, and sway me to the intense jazz being played.

Polyrhythmic jazz.

The music of two different and conflicting rhythms playing simultaneously, beating through the air, creating a blended sound so perfect that we can’t not move with each other. We are the sounds. Two different people, coming from different worlds with dissimilar interests and paths that should never have crossed. Yet here we are. Dancing to the rhythm made especially for us.

Our hips move in sync, our chests brushing, as they should. But my eyes are so focused on his shoulder that I’m afraid if I look up, I’ll get caught. Caught with the intense attraction I have yet am supposed to stay so far away from.

And because I’m an idiot and a fool, I look up. I look up into his soulful eyes. I look up into his intense features.

Nate lowers his forehead to mine, keeping our eyes locked. I wrap my hands around his neck and allow myself the luxury of being drawn into him, fully, wholly, and in a way I have been craving since that night in the poolroom. Since the night those full lips were on mine, and his strong hands roamed to places I have been dreaming about ever since.

Am I allowed to have these feelings for someone who doesn’t want me in that way?

Am I allowed to have these feelings for someone who is taken by someone else?

Probably not, but I can’t do anything but let him hold me, move me, as I pretend for just a few minutes that he is about to kiss me because my mouth wants his on mine so bad that I can’t stand it.

Nate’s hand lowers to my hip, hovering in dangerous territory, pushing boundaries, crossing the line. I allow my hands to drift from their clasped position behind his neck and run my fingers through his hair and up his scalp where they lightly pull at the ends. He groans lightly, so I release my fingers and drag them down along the sides of his neck. His breath hitches when I brush the sensitive skin.

When he finally lowers his fingers and digs them into my skin, I exhale so loudly that it’s as if I was holding my breath. He takes in a deep breath of his own. Our chests are so close that I can feel his heart beating. It’s pounding through his skin.

We move and sway and are so close that our noses touch. We’re two fighters in the ring, practicing a series of intense holds. Fighting each other, our moves are so intense that you can’t tell who’s winning.

Our lips.

Our lips stay on their sides of the ring. Not ready for battle.

The music turns fast, as fast as Nate’s racing heart, and we are suddenly aware of how foolish we must look, clutching at each other in the middle of a jazz club. And when I feel the intense bulge of Nate pressing against my core, I become so aroused that I let go of him and excuse myself to use the ladies’ room.

After waiting in the long line, I finally make it in and hover over the sink, allowing myself a moment of privacy to compose myself.

I look into the mirror. My cheeks are flushed. My hair is an intense mess of curls. My lips could use some gloss. My eyes could use an extra swipe of mascara.

Feeling like a friggin’ mess, I adjust my dress, which still looks spectacular, comb through my hair, swipe under my eyes, pull my shoulders back, and set back into that bar.

When I get back to the table, Nate is there, his elbows on his knees, looking off to the side in thought. As I walk toward the table, he looks over and immediately straightens up. His eyes widen at my approach.

I sit back down and see I have a fresh glass in place. “Long line,” I say, almost as an apology for taking so long. I don’t know why I do that. As if a woman can’t stand the thought of a man thinking she took a long time in the restroom.

He’s studying me. Why is he looking at me like that? I grab my cocktail napkin and wipe my nose, making sure I don’t have anything hanging out.

“I like your hair like that,” he finally says.

I lower the napkin.

“Thanks. It’s a mess.” I wave off his compliment.