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~ Darren ~
Past
“Why are we going to the dance floor?” Bridget asks me as I guide her away from the bar.
Because if I let you hang around Kimberly much longer, she’ll end up with Shirley Temple dripping down her face.Although part of me would find that amusing, I don’t want to deal with Kimberly’s reaction if that were to happen.
Instead, I reply, “To dance.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to dance.”
Doesn’t matter.In my world, what I say, goes. We’re on the dance floor, and I pull her to me. “You have something better to do here?”
“Yeah, my Shirley Temple.”
I stare down at her. Hundreds of women would die to be in her shoes right now, and she wants her fucking kids’ drink? What’s wrong with this woman?
I slide my hand up her back, between her shoulder blades. A small gasp escapes her lips. Now that’s more of a reaction I expect.
She blinks several times. I don’t think she knows what to say. She feels stiff and awkward in my arms, but she smells good. Not perfumed good. Just a hint of coconut soap or lotion.
Noticing that her arms hang at her sides, I ask, “You’ve danced before, haven’t you?”
She gives me a look of disapproval, one that I’m fast becoming familiar with. “Of course I have.”
With my arm about her waist, I yank her to me till there’s barely an inch between us. Her arms fly immediately to mine, making sure our bodies don’t touch further.
“The question I have is why are we dancing?” she asks.
I stare at her again. A few minutes beneath the paddle will stop all these questions. “You’d rather get to know my ex-girlfriend?” I retort.
She looks over at the bar, where Kimberly is frowning at us.
“I see. I’m your getaway car.”
My brows lift. She clearly doesn’t understand that I’ve done her a favor.
“I can handle Kimberly,” I say. “I was trying to save you from getting chewed up and spit out by her. She can be nasty.”
“Oh. Guess that’s nice of you then.”
That’s a better response.
“Do you usually date women who are nasty?”
Suddenly, I’m picturing her cuffed to my St. Andrew’s cross. Naked. Gasping as my flogger whips across her body.
“I’m not judging,” she adds. “It’s just a question, out of curiosity.”
I turn it back on her. “You interested in the type of women I date?”
She studies me. “You can tell a lot about a guy by the women he dates.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah.” She furrows her brow. “Except there are some assholes who don’t deserve the women in their lives. And the nice guys who must be masochistic because their girlfriends are total bitches.” She studies me again. “So, if you like nasty women, either you’re nasty yourself, or you’re the masochistic nice guy.”
Masochistic? Not really. Sadistic? Yes.
