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He trailed her, watching her narrow hips shift. “You’re exactly like the princess you are.” But she wasn’t anything like he’d expected.
She laughed. “Want to watch while the princess gets dirty?”
Like nothing else. There was music now. She made it happen by clapping her hands, smooth jazz, rich sound. And she danced. Jesus, how she moved, all hip and shoulder, all slow shake and low grind. He found his way to a leather sofa and collapsed into it to watch his private show. She took her hair down, shaking pins everywhere, cascading mahogany softness; waves of it, around her shoulders. She stole the beat and made it thrum through her body and pulse in his.
“I hate my stepfather.”
She moved like a tabletop dancer, like sex shot through with rum and set alight. Like she’d forgotten he was there.
“He hates me too. Are you listening?”
“Yeah.” But more to her body than her words. Her body was a blockbuster he’d only seen the previews of.
“You shouldn’t. I’ll say things I don’t mean.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Whatever you want.”
“You’re so easy.”
“You didn’t pick me to be hard.”
Her brows shot up. She went to her knees on the floor laughing, arms wrapped around her middle. He should’ve kept his mouth shut, but it was funny. He hauled her up and kissed the shrieks out of her. He’d kiss the butter soft of her, the spice of her all night if she’d let him.
“You’re lovely, Mace.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I am drunk, but not blind.” She deadpanned, “I’m hysterical!” She draped herself on him and he held her upright, this completely other person to the one he’d agreed to come home with, this viscerally real, surprising woman. “How’d you get to look like this?”
“Magic.”
“No. Something you do. No pizza and coke.”
“I work out. Punch a bag, run.”
“Why?”
“My brain works better if I work my body.”
She raked up his chest with her short square nails. “Nice body.”
He grunted. Her hands on him made him thirsty, but not for more to drink, to drink her.
“Dance with me.”
He grinned. “You can’t stand up.”
“So hold me. No one ever holds me.”
He lifted her—she weighed nothing—and spun her around. She braced her elbows on his chest. It wasn’t dancing by any stretch of the definition; it was stumbling, swaying, hands roving, grasping, and long, deep eye contact that made him forget he was wearing clothes.
“Take me to bed, Mace.”
“Got any more instructions?”
