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I throw a glance around. “Do you think we can just stick to awkward small talk?”
“No,” he replies. “We can not.Did you think of me?”
Every day…
Every minute sometimes… which was most fucking annoying.
I’m fairly sure I need an exorcism at this point…
I don’t answer, aware of one song drifting into another, seeing couples floating in my peripheral vision, but unable to pull my gaze away from the indecent man leading us so skillfully to the graceful melody.
“Good,” he replies, apparently gleaning the answer from my silence.
His next question doesn’t steal my voice. Instead, it makes me whimper, fidgeting as he holds me tight around my hand and back.
“Do you touch yourself while thinking of me?”
I peer up, unable to understand how he can ask such a question without exhibiting the vaguest hint of embarrassment
It takes me an entire chorus to speak. “You first,” I reply.
“I haven’t touched a woman since you left, so, yes… frequently.”
I swallow down his words. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t lie,” he replies, making my heart rate faster. “Now you. I want to hear it. Do you touch yourself when you think of me?”
The question is so outrageous, so indecent… and yet, I hunger to answer it.
I hunger to say yes, to tell him that thoughts of him make me wet, allow me to touch myself, to make myself come in what has felt like forever.
But instead, I remain silent, realizing I might be giving him my answer.
We don't speak for the rest of the dance. It’s tense and I've never been more aware of the painfully heated proximity of another human’s body, but there’s something comfortable about it as well.
I barely feel like I have to move—Grey takes care of that part with such strength and refinement that I can’t help but be caught in his current.
I know we’re fully clothed and in a room full of people, but between his eyes studying my lips and mine doing the same, this may be the most stimulating foreplay I've ever experienced.
As the final song comes to an end and the guests break into applause, I move to release myself from his grasp only to have him tug me into him more firmly, his grasp possessive, his gaze an entire tempestuous mood.
I shoot my best glower at him. “Is this all a game to you?” I whisper as he narrows his eyes at me.
“I’d only play with you if I knew you’d enjoy it, Indigo.”
21
Indigo
“Can I get my phone?” I ask Anne’s assistant, a short, tight-lipped woman whose expression can best be described by the words “brow-beaten”. In fact, at one point when Anne was hush-barking some insufferable command at her, I’m fairly sure I saw her soul depart from her body and enter the stratosphere.
Her anxiety-riddled gaze darts around the room. “Um, I think Anne said the bridesmaids are on duty until three. Maybe I should check with her?”
“What?!” I chuckle incredulously. “You can’t keep my phone from me, Stacey. That’s freaking ridiculous.”
“Okay… Just tell her it was an emergency,” she replies, digging my phone out of her turquoise purse.
It’s been an hour since my dance with Grey, who I haven’t seen in a while, spending most of it being ordered around by Anne whilst chatting to Carrie’s friends and trying to get in morsels of food to mitigate the effect of the whiskey and champagne.
