Beauty and the Baller

We meet in the middle of the ballroom underneath one of the chandeliers among the dancers, and I send a head nudge to the duo behind her.

“Ease up, guys. She’s with me.”

They shrug and leave. I’m sure crazier shit has happened at an NFL party.

My breath hitches as I take her in. I didn’t appreciate her before at the table, but this close, it’s as if someone created everything I love in a woman: tall, blonde, heart-shaped face, sapphire eyes, luscious tits. Toss in the costume . . .

My teenage fantasy in the flesh.

She takes both of my hands in hers, and the touch sends a buzz of awareness racing over my skin. I didn’t expect that.

“Ronan,” she murmurs.

Okay, she knows my name—not surprising.

“Hey, um . . . ?” What are you doing here?

“Help me,” she implores dramatically. “You’re my only, um, salvation . . . and stuff like that . . . to save the universe.”

I huff out a rusty laugh. “Well, that’s almost Leia’s first line in Star Wars.”

She leans in, and her fingers dance up my jacket and land on the lapels, stroking the black fabric. “I love this suit. You like my outfit?”

My gaze tangles in the soft curves of her body, lingering on her bikini-clad breasts. Gradually, I move up to the smooth line of her throat, to the dark winged eyebrows that contrast with her hair and frame her face. Even without the kick-ass costume, she’s the kind of girl you see on the street and do a double take. Hourglass shape, classic features, and a perfect pouty bottom lip.

“Yes,” I murmur.

“I could get used to this skirt.” She moves her hips, swishing the fabric.

“Loincloth.”

“You don’t say? I’ll make a note of that.” With a sly yet sweet smile, she does a little twirl, then stops in front of me and places a hand over her heart.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s sinking in. You really came to help me.”

My lips twitch. “To save the universe. And stuff like that.” I glance around the room. “Can I escort you somewhere?”

Disappointment flickers over her face before she quickly hides it. “No. I’m fine. Really. It was nice of you to come over. I’ll go. I just wanted to pop in and see . . .” She stops, seeming to think about her words, then smiles ruefully. “Never mind. Thank you. Goodbye, Ronan.”

When she turns, I grab her hand. “Wait.”

I don’t know why I stop her, but . . .

My eyes lock with hers, several breathless moments passing as our hands cling. Acting on instinct, my thumb caresses her palm.

Her lips part, heat flashing in her irises.

A long breath comes from me. I miss this. Desire, not pity, in a woman’s eyes.

I swallow thickly. There’s been no one since Whitney. I’ve had opportunities, mostly Tuck dragging me out to dinners and get-togethers, and girls have offered, but my body—and my heart—wasn’t ready.

It’s been forever since I flirted with a girl, but . . .

Lowering my lids, I tug her closer to me until our chests brush. “Who are you, gorgeous?”

Silence, thick and sweet, stretches between us. “Yours.”

A shot of lust, fueled by her whispered words, hits me. The lizard part of my brain, the primitive side that reacts on instinct to fighting and fucking, rears up. This one, it demands. Take it.

She’s not the right girl, the other side of my head shouts, even as my index finger strokes her cheek. She turns her head into the touch, sighing softly, and my chest seizes at her automatic response.

You wanted something to push that grief back.

“Dance with me,” she murmurs and doesn’t wait for my reply but leans her forehead on my shoulder, her body starting to sway to the slow song the DJ plays.

I dip my head and sway with her, slow and easy. My hands slide around her waist, almost tentatively. Moments tick by, heavy with expectation, as if waiting to see what happens next. My thumb finds the small of her back and circles the soft skin there. It’s my favorite part of a woman, and I can’t resist. My breath snags as her fingers trace designs on my shoulders, then press harder, her nails dragging down my back, then up. I bite back a groan. Touch. It’s one of the things I’ve missed, the smooth glide of hands over skin, the feeling of connection.

We go from one song to another, the music bleeding together as the DJ spins slow tracks. I keep my eyes shut, my body relaxing against hers. Even my knee feels better. A long exhale comes from my chest as the tension from the last few hours vanishes. It was hard to walk in here. To sit at a table with couples, recognize their sorrow-filled glances, and realize that once again, I’m alone.

The truth is it’s the nights that eat at me the most. I’m sick of spending them by myself.