Buttoned up, starchy, rule-following Olivia shocks the heck out of me. Pretty sure she also gives the bar a collective heart attack as she launches into a slow, dirty grind, working her ass in her neat pencil skirt. When she drags her fingers down the front of her blouse, tongues start hanging out. She’s gorgeous and happy and ten bucks says one of my teammates makes a move on her tonight.
Sarah Jo bounces off my lap with enough vigor that I grunt. I’ve got plans for my balls and my dick later tonight, but she’s oblivious to using them as a launching pad. I’ll let her kiss everything better when we’re alone.
She’s practically vibrating. “Dance with me.”
I’m built like a bear, not Baryshnikov. I glance around the bar, taking in the guys crowding the space. Most of them are a little rough around the edges, a jeans-wearing, T-shirt-sporting crew. A lot of them are built because you don’t dig line for eight hours a day and not gain muscle. A few are wearing shirts with actual buttons and something besides steel-toed boots. Fucking Colt looks like Mr. GQ in something that even I know cost the sun, moon, and a half-dozen pricey constellations. The man is not a cheap date.
None of us, however, are wearing tutus. Or dancing shoes.
“I don’t dance.” I hang onto my beer like it’s gonna anchor me to our booth. “Come back over here and let me kiss you some more.”
I watch as she makes this twisty-face with her mouth, thinking about my offer. The jukebox segues into something slow and extra achy-breaky-heartish and the dance floor rapidly empties out except for Lola and Olivia semi-groping and grinding. Colt commandeers the waitress; Adrian produces a little blonde from somewhere and they start making tidy, awkward circles in place on the dance floor.
“Dance,” Sarah Jo decides. She waggles her fingers at me.
I look down. I’m still not wearing a tutu.
I can’t remember the last time I danced for anything other than a joke. My waltz with Colt, a drunken conga line with my boys—these things were just for fun and some laughs. It’s not that I don’t fucking love music or that I mind getting up in front of a crowd; it’s that my body never got the rhythm memo. I can’t dance for shit.
“I don’t dance,” I repeat.
Sarah Jo tugs the empty beer out of my hand and sets it on the table. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Both,” I grumble.
She waves her hand in the air. “You don’t have to be good at it. Just look at Lola.”
Lola has tits to distract the rest of the bar, plus I don’t really care what she thinks. Sarah Jo is different. I’d rather not make a public display of my inadequacies.
But she’s sneaking wistful looks at the dance floor and the song has to be half fucking over, right? If she wants to do this, I’ll just have to man up and hope it doesn’t go too badly.
“Come on.” I stand up, grabbing her hand and towing her after me. She doesn’t hesitate. She follows my lead, and I find myself pressed against her curvy body as we gyrate stiffly in place. I have no idea what she thought we’d do out here, but I wrap my arms around her loosely, tucking my hands on the top of her ass, and breathe her in. She smells so fucking good, like a strawberry Sarah Jo piña colada, and I’m buzzing on just her. Doesn’t help my dancing any, but I like it.
Sarah Jo slides her arms around me, her fingertips toying with the hem of my T-shirt and making little raids on the skin beneath. My only plan was to get her out here and make her happy. She rests her head against my chest, exhales, and then she just kind of melts into the music. She’s fucking gorgeous, swaying, and dipping, and lighting up the floor. Me? Not so much. I step awkwardly from foot to foot like some kind of bear-loon hybrid. Colt actually winces as he slowly two-steps around us.
Fuck that noise. Because Sarah Jo’s smiling at me, happiness and amusement lighting up her eyes, and I don’t think she minds that I’m shit in the dancing department. She moves her hips slowly to the music, her top bouncing and floating and generally driving me crazy because I know how easy it would be to get my hands underneath it again and pet her tits more.