Page 91 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

I set my glass down.

“Didn’t take you for the bold type,” I say.

She shrugs one shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”

Yeah.

I offer my hand.

She looks at it for half a second, that flicker of instinct, that small pause, measuring risk, then she places her hand in mine.

And there it is.

That snap.

Every time I touch her, it hits the same way. Clean, immediate, powerful. A current running under the surface.

I guide her toward the small stretch of open floor near the back. We don’t move to the center. I don’t need an audience. I need her close.

The music shifts. Bass low and pulsing. The kind of song that makes people lean instead of spin.

I place one hand at her waist, and she doesn’t pull away.

The space between us narrows until there isn’t any left to speak of. Her hands come to rest against my chest, fingers splaying, testing the reality of me.

“You’re solid,” she murmurs.

“I’d hope so.”

“No,” she says softly, pressing her palm flat over my sternum. “I mean it.”

Her hand is warm through my shirt. I can feel the exact shape of it.

I slide my hand a fraction lower on her back.

She inhales.

“You always this calm?”

“No.” I shake my head.

“You look calm.”

“I’m not.”

Her mouth curves at that.

She sways against me, and now there’s no mistaking the line of her body against mine. The heat, the subtle shift of her hips finding rhythm against me.

My grip tightens just slightly at her waist before I catch myself.

“You’re thinking,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

The way she says it, almost pleading, pulls at my restraint.