That’s when she looks up for the first time and our eyes meet. Something flashes in hers, a little bit of the old attitude she wears like a second skin. I’m unreasonably happy to see it, especially considering how much her mouth usually annoys me.
“You do know that it’s customary to ask a woman to dance, don’t you? Instead of dragging her off like a caveman.” Somehow she manages to look down her nose at me, even though she’s about five inches shorter than I am even in her ridiculous heels.
I ignore the surge of relief that comes with her sassiness and concentrate instead on shutting it down. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that if you give Tori an inch, she’ll take ten miles. And somehow get you to thank her for it even as she exercises her own version of manifest destiny. “Yeah, well, it’s also customary not to get shit-faced at a formal engagement party, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”
Her eyes narrow and when she opens her mouth I know she’s planning on delivering a stinging slap-down. And frankly, I’m not in the mood to hear it. Especially since she’s been saying the same old shit practically from the day we met.
So instead of waiting for whatever insult she wants to level at me this time, I spin her out fast and hold her there for the count of five before slowly pulling her back in.
She’s talking before our hands even meet. “I’m far from shit-faced, thank you very much.”
“Maybe not, but you’re well on your way.” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes at her. “You’ve had three glasses of champagne in the last twenty minutes.”
“Wow. Stalk much?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, baby. After all, I was here first.”
Before she can answer, I spin her out again, then pull her close and spin her back out in the opposite direction, just because I can. And because it pisses her off and a pissed-off Tori Reed is a magnificent sight to behold.
“Don’t call me baby,” she snarls the second I pull her back in. “And believe me, Miles, the only way I would stalk you would be if I was planning on driving a wooden stake through your cold, black heart.”
“Wooden stakes are for the undead,” I tell her as I press her close so she can feel the heat of my body through my suit and her dress. “And I can assure you, baby, I am very much alive.”
“Yeah, well, kitchen knives work on everyone. Why don’t you come downstairs with me right now? I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
“Aw, how nice. An invitation to your place.” I smirk deliberately. “First you follow me to this party, then you invite me into your condo? You sure you’re not the one stalking me?”
She’s outraged, and it’s obvious she’s got a vicious response on the tip of her tongue. So I spin her out again, just to watch her eyes narrow to slits and her cheeks get even more flushed.
“You could always come downstairs with me and find out,” she hisses as I pull her back in.
This time, instead of taking her hand, I place one finger to her lips before she can spit any of the insults at me that I can see swimming in her eyes. “Now, now, baby, I know you’re eager. But I’m not that kind of guy. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to let me take you to dinner first.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Well then, you’re never going to get in my pants. No matter how much you beg.”
“I don’t want in your pants. And I don’t beg. Ever.”
“Hmm. I guess I could settle for you asking nicely.”
“Don’t hold your breath. No, wait. Do. Preferably for about six minutes.” The grin she levels at me is sharp as broken glass and twice as beautiful. I study it—study her—as the song winds down. As I do, I can’t help thinking what a shame it is that she’s got the personality of an antisocial piranha, because she’s smart and stunning. It’s a winning combination, one I’d be all over if she were just a little nicer. And if she weren’t my little sister’s best friend. And if she didn’t know about—
I cut the thought off, refuse to let myself go there again—especially around her. Instead I concentrate on the moment, on the fact that I’ve got Tori right here at my mercy. And just because I won’t fuck her doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with her. Especially since she just wished brain death on me.
As the song ends, I clasp her hand tightly in mine even as I slide my other hand from her back to her ass. She jumps, shoots me a killer glare, but I hold on. And then, as the chorus finishes with one final crescendo, I dip her down, down, down.
She gasps as I do it, her free hand clutching at the lapel of my suit jacket as she feels herself tipping off balance. I don’t even try to hide my grin as I lower her a little closer to the floor.
“Let me up,” she demands.
But she’s in no position to demand anything and it’s time she figures that out. So instead of easing her back to a standing position, I lower her even more, stretching her body out until she has no choice but to wrap an arm around my neck and hold on tight. What I didn’t anticipate—but what I’m certainly not going to complain about—is the way her leg wraps around my upper thigh.
And still I don’t pull her up, still I hold her there, a little off balance but totally at my mercy. It’s a good look for her.
Around us people are starting to watch, but I don’t give a shit. People have looked at me strange my whole life—I’ve been the absentminded genius with the too-weird ideas for as long as I can remember—and I’m not about to start caring now.
“Okay, Miles,” she hisses at me. “You’ve had your fun!”