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And when the guy follows it up with how his ballerina drops her body like a stripper, I have to lick my dried lips and wipe my sweaty hands on my dress.
I should be offended – this song reeks of dirty, filthy sex – but I’m not.
I’m not even nervous.
There isn’t the slightest bit of hesitation in me.
My body is buzzing with excitement, with shooting stars, and when I close my eyes for a second, I see light behind my eyelids.
I can’t see anything on his face though.
It’s expressionless, tight.
But when I take a deep breath and raise my arms, his features change.
They become somehow sharper and more chiseled but also fluid.
I think it’s his lips that part slightly when I take my first spin and his eyes that shine like diamonds when I begin to sway my hips to the beat.
And after that my eagerness to dance for him knows no bounds.
I’m dying, actually dying, to spin for him, to sway and move.
To rock my hips and bite my lips.
To look him in his wolf eyes that grow alert with my every leap and jump. More on edge.
In fact, his whole body seems on edge, excited even.
His whole body moves to keep me in sight as I circle around him.
His feet spin when I do.
His fists clench when I throw my arms in the air.
His mouth parts when mine does to take in a shaky breath.
God.
Reed Roman Jackson is just as eager as me.
Just as tightly wound and I’ve never seen him this way.
I’ve never seen him excited for anything.
The knowledge of that, the knowledge that his heart might be racing just as fast as my heart and that the beads of sweat on his forehead match the beads of sweat on mine, makes me dizzy.
It makes me drunk and drugged and so high on his attention that when the song crescendos and I do my last spin, I stumble.
The world tips and I lose my balance. The ground seems to have vanished from under my feet and I have no choice but to fall.
He catches me at the last second though.
His arm goes around my waist and instead of crashing down to the ground, I go crashing into his body. My hands land on his ribs and my fingers clutch onto his hoodie.
A thousand thoughts, a thousand sensations, explode in my mind, but the very first that jumps out is that it’s soft.
His hoodie.
It’s the softest, coziest, plushest thing I’ve ever touched. Even more than the sweaters that I knit for my brothers.
The thought that immediately follows is that no wonder he loves it, his hoodie.
No wonder he wears it all the time, because everything else about him is hard and harsh and sharp.
His strong arm that’s wrapped around my waist. The power in his thighs that are pressed against my stomach.
Panting and looking up into his animal eyes, I whisper, “I know that it might not matter, coming from me, but…” I swallow, gripping his hoodie tighter, my brain foggy and my tongue spewing words I don’t understand. “But I think you’re amazing. O-on the field, I mean. You’re just so gorgeous and reckless and feral, the way you… play. It’s no wonder that they call you the Wild Mustang. It’s no wonder…”
I trail off, embarrassed.
What the heck am I saying?
Why am I telling him this?
I shouldn’t. These are my private thoughts. Traitor thoughts that I shouldn’t even entertain.
“No wonder what?” he rasps, his strong, muscled arm squeezing my waist.
I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth then. “No wonder why girls can’t stop watching you.”
No wonder why I can’t stop watching you.
A blush fans over my cheeks as soon as I say it and I lower my eyes.
“It does,” he says.
I look up. “What?”
He squeezes my waist again. “It matters. Coming from you.”
“Oh.”
“And you’re not a princess.”
“I’m not?”
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes all intense and piercing. “You’re a fairy.”
I lick my lips then and his wolf eyes flare and I open my tingling mouth to say something — not sure what — when there’s a shout.
“Jackson!”
My eyes pop wide at that voice and my fingers in his hoodie tighten even more.
Because I know it. I know that voice too.
It belongs to someone I know and someone I love and someone I’m completely betraying by being here.
My brother, Ledger.
My brother is here.
Somehow, he’s found me, and I’m wrapped around the guy he hates the most.
The guy who should be worried right now.
Very, very worried.
But he’s not.
He’s sweeping his eyes over my face as if memorizing it before he smiles slightly and steps back, easily getting out of my grip.
My fingers feel empty without his hoodie but I don’t have the time to dwell on it because I hear Ledger again.
“Get the fuck away from her.”
