Page 1 of Dancing Struggles


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Chapter One

Sarah

Four Years Ago . . .

What is that old saying I’ve heard people always said?

Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

Well, it should be that.

Only it’s a supernova sun fire.

Because the man who sits at the dark end of the bar is simply that hot. Mind-blowing. Either oil on flame or elixir for a wound. I’m not sure which and I sure shouldn’t be interested. Who can blame me for being anything but interested?

He’s looking at me, long and slow, the kind of look that moves over the skin, like a soft touch and one that promises sex.

I should look away, go to the other end of the bar, and drown my sorrows.

I don’t move.

He’s still looking and so am I.

He keeps his eyes on me as he stands and moves in my direction.

“Are you going to stare at me all night long?” he asks, stopping just at my side. “Like you want to eat me. Or are you going to join me?”

His voice is smooth, rich, and low. Coffee on high octane heavily laced with cream. It makes me shiver.

“Maybe I don’t want to join you.” I try for casual indifference which is hard when my mouth is dry and my fingers tingle. Hard when there’s an invitation, unspoken, in the air, that even I can see and feel.

I don’t want to be me tonight. I want to be bold. Try on the air of an older, sophisticated man. Be someone else. At least for one single night, I want to have what I know I shouldn’t.

“Really?” There’s a challenge there, in that one word.

I look at him. “Maybe I’m just deciding on slow roast or stir fry.”

For a beat, he doesn’t answer me. It’s not any normal beat. It throbs and vibrates in the air with promises I can’t quite read.

This is a man who’s confident, sexual, and he’s looking at me like I’m interesting.

I’m young, but I recognize an offer when I see it.

“Did you just make a joke about you wanting to eat me?” he asks, cocking a brow.

“Who said anything about a joke? I take meals seriously.” I’m looking at him like he could be dessert with a twist. “I’m not sure you cut it. I like a full meal.”

Did . . . oh, Lord, I just told the hottest man—and I do meanman, he’s not anywhere near the early twenties like me, probably close to thirties, maybe just over thirty—that he’s no better than a carrot stick.

He starts laughing and, oh boy, does that laugh do something to me. “If that’s a pick-up line, it needs work.” Then his gaze slides slowly over me, and I shiver. “Or maybe not.”

The look ignites fires that flare into life all over me, and I’m not sure what to say, so I slide a little closer, interested in where this is going.

It’s been so long since someone’s looked at me as he is now, like this, like I’m fair game, like I’m fascinating.

For the past six months, I’ve kept away from guys. After Billy . . . I swallow. After being shackled at the too-young age of eighteen to a much older man, and I mean older, I’m free. It’s a freedom I made myself and fought for.

And tonight, I don’t want to be Billy King’s child bride. The one who put up with chains that had vampire teeth, to which sucked life force.

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