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“I have. It says in effect that you danced and that it was very romantic. Not much for an actor to go on.”
“That’s the director’s job, to interpret the scene and put it on film.”
“He’ll set up the scene, Kirsten, but I’ll bring it to life. By the time it’s over, every man in the theater should want to be me and every woman you. Now concentrate.”
The order was directed as much to himself as to her. Because with the contact of their bodies, he’d felt an onslaught of desire, and the only thing he could really concentrate on was being inside her. And he knew in that instant that it would happen. If he died trying, he would have carnal knowledge of this intriguing woman.
“I’m Rumm and I’ve just met an incredibly attractive woman that I’ve got the immediate hots for. What do I do? How do I act under those circumstances?” He yanked her up hard against him. “How did Rumm hold you when you danced? Did he hold you like this?”
He was holding her in the traditional waltz position, except much closer than most ballroom teachers would have thought appropriate or even feasible for intricate steps.
“Yes, at first.”
Rylan began to lead, moving them in time to the moody strains of “Inspiration.” Their dancing consisted of little more than swaying in rhythm, a brushing of two bodies electrically charged, a flirtation of masculinity with femininity. Vertical foreplay.
“Was he shy with you? Did he hold you this close?”
“Yes.”
“To the first or second question?”
“The second. Charlie was never shy.”
“Did he rest his cheek against your hair?” When she nodded, Rylan pressed his jaw against her temple. “Like this?”
“Yes, only . . .”
“Only?”
“Only he was a few inches taller. He had to bend down more.”
“Well, I’m not going to dance on tippy toes, so we’ll have to make do with this. Besides,” he whispered, “I like the way we fit.”
Their bodies did fit phenomenally well. They meshed perfectly. As though they had been blueprinted to fit together, his maleness nestled in her feminine softness. He couldn’t stop himself from nudging her lightly. The cloth of her dress was sheer and giving, so that it was like there was nothing between them except his jeans. He could barely hear the music over the pounding racket his pulse made in his head.
“Anything else I should know?” he asked. He lightly blew against the wispy strands of hair that lay on her neck.
“He was brawnier than you. I remember feeling very safe when he put his arms—”
She broke off, and Rylan angled his head back and looked down at her. “Where?”
“Around my waist,” she replied hoarsely.
He linked his hands at the small of her back and pulled her even closer against him. Higher. His body settled more deeply into the cove of her thighs. “Like this?”
She nodded. Leaning back slightly, she gazed up at him, as though trying to clearly distinguish Charlie Rumm’s face from his. “His hair was lighter than yours. And curlier. The texture was different.”
“Texture?” Rylan asked, pouncing on the word. “Did you touch his hair that night?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were filled with contradiction and bemusement. “I . . . you’re confusing me. I don’t remember.” Her head fell forward onto his chest. Her arms were dangling loosely at her sides.
“Were your arms like this when you danced with Charlie, Kirsten?” She rolled her forehead against his sternum in a negative motion. “Where were they?” he asked gently.
Somnambulantly she raised her arms and looped them around his neck. She had small breasts. Her position only served to make the nipples more prominent.
Rylan drew in a hissing breath. “Is this when you touched his hair?”
“I think so. I must have run my fingers through it.”
