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Gross.
“A hundred!”
“One fifty!”
“Two hundred!”
Oh God… Please wake me up.
“Do I see thr—”
“Three!”
“Three fifty!”
At this point, the only saving grace is that I don’t hear Greyson’s voice, thanking the heavens he’s not participating in my public purchase.
“Anyone else?”
A voice calls out from the back of the room. “Four hundred!”
“Four fifty.”
Oh God…
“Five hundred!”
“Five fifty.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
My breath leaves me in a sharp blast though no one would ever hear over the collective gasp of the room.
My vision blurs, landing somewhere over the dancefloor around which stand three couples, winners and prize-givers of the auction.
I don’t look over to him. I knew from the second I heard that deep, rich, and exacerbating self-confident voice of his who it was.
Cheers and claps reverberate around the room as the MC has his verbal orgasm.
“Tenthousanddolllllaarrrs,and our biggest bid of the night, from Mr. Greyson Everitt! How about a round of applause?!”
Around the blur of the dancefloor, I see guests getting to their feet as if they’re about to witness the monthly lion-gladiator tête-à-tête at the Roman coliseum.
Somewhere to my right from the side of the stage, I hear Anne spit a word at me like a libidinous snapping turtle without a mate, and without even registering what the utterance is, I begin to walk, taking in the wooden floorboards beneath my feet so that my floppy legs don’t give way, until I get to the short set of stairs that lead me down to the dancefloor.
“I think that deserves a fourth dance, don’t you?” shouts the MC who sounds like he’s shuddering through orgasm no. 2.
I’m highly aware of my feet as I somehow manage to make it across the herringbone parquet. The crowd cheer as I walk myself forwards, my unsteady gaze following the floor until they meet a set of shiny black shoes in the center of the dancefloor, before roaming up the ebony fabric of the pants encasing long legs and over his crotch. A white shirt is tucked into the pants around a lean waist and I follow it up to a muscular chest and thick, broad shoulders which I’ll soon… touch.
What hits me even before seeing his face is how his body language can be so poised standing there in front of a room full of people, as if he owns the goddamn room and everyone in it.
As my gaze rises to his face, I see that he’s tracking me as a lion would the gazelle whose throat he’s about to rip out, and so I do my best to keep my expression stone-faced.
My breathing shortens as he raises his hand, waiting for the touch of mine. As I make it to within a foot of him, my hand lifts almost against my will, and as my fingertips collide with his palm to the sound of cheers which ricochet through my head, a surge of electricity rages through my body that dissolves into nothing as my palm hits his.
My eyes lock onto his as I block out all sound, all feeling other than that of his fingers wrapping around the edge of my hand as his other one slides onto the side of my waist, and I lift mine to his shoulder, trying to ignore how thick and strong the muscle is.
As the first bars of Sleepwalk by Deftones play out and the crowd cheers, I realize we’re dancing this first dance alone.
