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With a soft touch, I allow my fingers to glide down to her mouth. I trace her lower lip with my thumb, smearing her perfectly applied lipstick. She shivers but doesn’t ask me to stop. What she does next surprises me. She grabs hold of my wrist, closes her eyes, and allows her lips to part.
An invitation?
Goddammit.
The need to slip my thumb between those plump lips is overwhelming, but I resist. We’re surrounded by too many people—and too many phones—and the last thing I need is to give Cesar more ammunition.
It’s just a dance.
To my regret, the song ends.
Arianne opens her eyes.
The black guy with the platinum blond hair makes an announcement in Spanish. Judging from the reaction of the crowd, it must be another favorite. A petite brunette with waist-length hair wearing thigh-high sparkly silver boots and a white micro mini dress steps up to a mic. With one nod, the band starts playing. The frantic tempo of the previous song slows down to a more melodic salsa.
Fuck, it’s about to get worse for me.
“Probablemente,” Arianne says. “I love this song. Especially, Daniela Darcourt’s version.”
The beat is dangerously sexy, only enhanced by the smokey-timbre of the female vocalist.
Arianne lets go of my hands and to my utter shock she goes for it.
I stand back and admire her in awe.
I can’t peel my eyes off her.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Beautiful in an unassuming way.
Beautiful because she’s clueless to her natural beauty.
Beautiful because she’s oblivious to the sensuality buried deep inside her.
I’m so wrapped up with her, everyone around us ceases to exist. Not that it matters because every single person here seems caught up in the bewitching notes of the song.
The woman who seemed so distant—so in control—loses herself in a series of outrageous and dizzying dance moves, matching Probablemente’s enraptured tempo. Every movement is an assault, fraying my weakening resolve. Glistening pearls of sweat trail across her forehead, testament to her feverish dancing.
A standoffish Arianne is a challenge that gets my engine roaring, but this carefree version is intoxicating, and I’m not quite sure what to make of her yet.
As the tempo increases, she lifts her skirt up just enough to bring more attention to her slender curves. My head jerks back, astounded when she slaps each ass cheek as her hips suggestively sway left to right.
God, those hips.
My cock throbs to the beat of her dancing.
My pulse is racing faster than a well-built automobile breaking three hundred miles per hour on the track.
I’m turned on beyond belief.
And fuck if I don’t want to drop to my knees and find out how sweet she tastes. I want to lick my way down her stomach and look up to see that same cock-hardening expression on her face while I devour her pussy.
I want to hear my name on her lips when she comes.
Damn challenge.
When the bridge hits again, I reach out and pull her to me.
