I grabbed my clutch off the bar and waved it at the bartender. He skidded over, and I tossed it to him. “Hold this behind the bar?”
“You got it.”
Logan gripped my waist, turning me to face him. “What are you doing?”
The horns kicked in, and Richard Cheese’s “Ahhhhhhh” rose in crescendo.
Logan widened his eyes, his tone incredulous. “Is this Welcome To The Jungle?”
Nodding, I spun out of his grip and strode toward the crowded floor by the stage, a dance floor Collin and I used to tear up ten years ago. Back then, I danced to woo the crowd. But time had changed me. My desires had changed. I didn’t want the attention of an entire room. I only wanted his attention.
I sensed him following me as I crossed the club, my gait seductive, confident, the length of my legs leading, giving the illusion of dragging my toes through each sensual stride. Hips rolling with the beat, I stretched my arms heavenward and melted into the music. My body loosened with each step, my hands roaming my shoulders, the outer curves of my breasts, the dip in my waist.
As the drummer tapped the crash, I stopped, looked over my shoulder, eyes downward as if watching my ass shake with each tap tap tap.
Lifting my eyes, they landed on Logan. His chin down, gaze up and locked on mine, he prowled toward me, stalking me, as he rolled up his sleeves.
Was he going to dance? My heart raced, and my skin heated. I curled my finger in a come-hither, swinging my hips and walking backwards. A backwards walk during which I never removed my eyes from his, never wanted to for fear he might disappear.
I glided over the dance floor, moving in time, my mind replaying our kiss, the heat of his mouth, the skill of his tongue, and I knew it wasn’t enough. I wanted more with this man.
Maybe I wasn’t as competent at hooking up as I used to be, but dammit, I was still attractive. Evader had rejected me for reasons other than my looks, considering he’d never seen my face.
The contract was what discouraged me, time and time again. Well, time was running out. I wasn’t getting any younger.
Screw Trent and screw my sexless marriage. Because right now, avoiding the empty bed at home seemed a whole lot more important than dancing around a contract.
I deserved one night. One fuck-all, live-it-up, the-contract-doesn't-exist night.
Tonight, I intended to rock Logan’s world. On the dance floor. And in his bed.
Melding into the sway of undulating bodies, with my hair down and a gorgeous man studying the move of my body with lust in his eyes, I felt weightless. Growing up, I despised the dance lessons Collin and I had been forced to take, but this, this I missed.
The stresses of my career, of Collin’s career, had stolen this. But tonight, I took it back.
As the horns slowed in tempo, I held Logan’s eyes and dragged the backs of my fingers from my chin to my ears, flicking my arms out on a cymbal bang.
He laughed and shook his head, standing on the edge of the dance floor, hands in his pockets.
The pound of piano keys set the rhythm of my walk as I strutted toward him, ankles dramatically crossing one before the other, bending my knees in a rolling bounce.
He slid his hands from his pockets, his stance loose, sexy, ready.
As the snare hit a trio of bangs, I whipped my chin from shoulder to shoulder with each crash. Then I pivoted, sidled my back up to his front, and rocked my ass against his arousal.
His hand circled my bicep and lifted my arm, hooking it behind his neck, his body curling around me in an erotic grind. He trailed a knuckle from my raised elbow to the side of my breast, leaving a trail of shivering flesh in its wake. His other hand flattened on my stomach, holding my back flush with his chest, our bodies moving with the rapid kick of the drums.
The song ended on a long blare of horns and a room full of applause.
I turned in his hold as the snap snap snap of fingers brought in the next tune, quickly accompanied by the pluck of the bass and Richard Cheese’s sing-songy “Do you feel that? Ohhhhh shit.”
Folding into his irresistible body, I wrapped my arms around his neck and lay my cheek on his chest, following the sway of his hips, letting the slow melody flow through my lungs.
When the beat sped up, I knew he recognized the song because he threw his head back and laughed. Then his eyes lowered to mine, crinkling with a smile, as he mouthed the depraved lyrics to Down With The Sickness, jazz-style.
The chorus broke in, and mischief lit up his expression. He angled his lips to my ear. “Foxtrot.”