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“She’s dancing with me,” he says. He grabs my arm and yanks me to him. The jolt of electricity as I go crashing into his chest blazes through me, setting every nerve in my body on high alert.
My karaoke buddy is still on stage, and when he sees me crushed against Noah, he winks, says something to the band, and they start to play a slower, more sensuous song. Oh, damn.
“If you wanted to dance, you should have just said so.” Despite his gruff tone, Noah’s holding me so close to him that I can hear his heartbeat and feel the hard plane of his chest beneath the thin T-shirt he’s wearing. I can feel my nipples tighten as they brush against him. Traitors.
“I didn’t know you could salsa.” I try to sound flippant, but I’m not sure I pull it off.
In response, he places his hand on the side of my neck, sending shocks of awareness racing through me. “Try to keep up.”
Noah isn’t as flawless at the dance steps as Sebastian was, but whatever he lacks in finesse, he makes up for with pure unadulterated sexuality and control. He is comfortable in his own skin as few men are, and it shows. He’s aggressive in dancing, as he is in life, and although we’re dancing together, I feel like he controls my every move. He doesn’t let go of me, one hand always on my back, holding me firmly to him as our bodies move to the music in a dance of seduction as old as time. He lifts my arm as he skims his knuckles down the tender underside, making me shiver, then takes both of my wrists in his, firm fingers wrapped around them as I dance for him, his eyes hungrily watching me.
It’s as if all of the unfulfilled want and need that’s been simmering between us is poured into the dance, and we move together like our bodies know each other intimately. He turns me so my back is to him, my bottom pressed against the hard bulge beneath his pants and his hand splayed across my stomach as I circle my hips, and then he spins me around so we’re facing each other and pulls me back against him. I’m past combustion. The heat in me is already at the flash point, and fire is licking through my veins, demanding to be extinguished.
Our hips undulate, our pelvises grinding together erotically as his hand caresses my hair. This isn’t dancing; this is foreplay.
“What gives, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice gravelly.
Dancing together like this has created a familiarity that makes me bold. Screw paralysis by analysis.
“I want you to make love to me.”
Our foreheads are pressed together, our noses touching, our faces so close I can see the golden flecks in his whiskey-colored eyes. With one arm still banded around my waist, he cups my cheek in his hand and gently swipes the pad of his thumb across my cheekbone. The simple sweetness of the gesture sends my stomach plummeting to my toes. His gaze lingers on my lips for a long minute, and I will him to kiss me. Instead, he shakes his head slightly.
“I can’t.”
“Fine,” I snap, pushing him away from me with every ounce of strength I have. He barely moves—I might as well try to shove a boulder—but he lets me go.
“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.”
I don’t give him a backward glance as I walk out of the bar.
