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His lips shaped into a devious smirk. “You never told me how much you liked to dance,” he said. “I thought baking was your favorite.”
“I’m a complex woman, Maxim.”
He laughed, a devious smirk shaping his lips. “Well, that’s good to know, since dancing is one of my specialties.”
I tilted my head, and gasped when he shifted his hands to my hips, maneuvering us as one, spinning and dipping, hitting every single beat of the melody in this sultry, sinful dance that had other dancers moving back to give us room and to openly watch.
And I didn’t have time to be nervous or self-conscious, not with the way Maxim kept looking at me. Like I was the center of his world. Like I was the key to getting him to relax, to unwind from the daily pressures he’d had since he was a kid. Like I was the answer to all the questions he’d ever had.
The music ended, and people clapped as Maxim brought our dance to a halt. As he held me there against his chest, my breathing ragged as I grinned up at him. McKittrick downright whooped.
Heat flushed my cheeks, and Maxim tucked an errant curl behind my ear that had escaped my updo.
“Do I pass the Evie dancing standard?” he asked, tugging me off the dance floor and nodding to a few of his teammates who were still clapping for him.
“You pass every Evie standard,” I said as he brought us back to the bar. “You always have.”
Maxim stopped short, his eyes pinning me with a gaze that had nothing to do with the light banter we were engaged in, and everything to do with stealing my heart. Which he totally, absolutely already had.
“Evie…” he started, then stopped, smoothing his hand over my cheek. “I—”
“Maxim!” Asher Silas called from a round top near the bar we were headed toward. The owner of the Reapers waved us over, and Maxim turned to walk that way.
“I’m going to get a drink with the girls,” I said, motioning to the bar that had water I desperately needed after that dance.
Maxim smirked at me. “If I find you back on that dance floor with McKittrick—”
“You’ll what?” I challenged.
He pulled me closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Then I suppose I’ll have to go full alpha on you like those guys in your books. Tie you up and punish you for wounding my male pride.”
Heat licked up the center of me, lightning zinging through my veins at the image he painted.
“Oh, I’m definitely going to go find McKittrick then,” I said, and he growled low and rough.
“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, then released me. “My little good luck charm.”
15
MAXIM
She was so fucking hot.
That dress clung to every curve, and the neckline made me want to regress to high school and motorboat those fantastic breasts. And the way her ass swayed as she walked away from me? Hypnotizing. I hadn’t been able to stop touching her since I’d first laid eyes on her tonight.
I took two steps and pulled her against my chest. “I hope you know I’m going to fuck these tonight,” I growled against her ear, just loud enough for only her to hear.
“I’m sorry?” She arched an eyebrow at me, her cheeks flushing.
“These gorgeous breasts that are currently pressed against my chest.” I raised my hand on her back and pulled her tighter against me. “I’m going to fuck them tonight.”
Instead of gasping or sputtering in embarrassment, she simply smiled up at me. “Promises, promises.” Then she pulled out of my arms and headed to the end of the bar where Fiona waited.
Then I turned toward the group of men who held down the table at the opposite end of the bar like it was their own personal VIP section. Mostly because it was.
“You have it so bad!” Sterling said, smacking me on the back with a grin from where he stood beside Asher. “This is so much fun to watch.”
“Shut up.” Not that he was wrong.
“What is this, the billionaire section?” I half-joked, scanning the table.
“Guess you could say that,” Asher responded with a laugh.
The benefit seemed to have brought out all of the franchise owners in Charleston, and beyond. Ethan Berkeley—the owner of our town’s MLB team, the Charleston Hurricanes, stood on Asher’s other side, wearing a suit that cost enough to qualify as an investment. The guy had a reputation as a complete hard-ass, but he was chatting it up with Weston Rutherford, the adrenaline-junkie owner of the Raleigh Raptors, who must have come down from North Carolina for the event. Then there was Crossland McClaren, the owner of the Calgary NHL franchise, whose eyes reminded me entirely too much of Bristol’s—Brigg’s fiancé—but that was to be expected since he was her older brother. But the guy on the end?
