My stomach clenches. The way he says it…it sounds intimate. “I’m only here for the ambiance,” I say, shaking my head.
Rejection just doesn’t compute with this guy. As if my refusal is only a dare to further his advances. He rises from his chair, smoothing out the lapels against his chest, and offers me his hand. “We had a date planned for tonight. I suspect it would’ve included dancing.”
Licking my lips, I search the crowd, to where my father and Becca are enraptured in some conversation with one of my father’s colleagues. He probably won’t even notice…maybe.
Knowing that Ryder won’t stop until he’s effectively made a scene, one in which he’s determined to get his way, I reluctantly accept his hand.
“Over there,” I instruct, nodding to a secluded corner.
“Damn, carrot cake. Leave a guy a little room to be the horn dog.”
My face flames. “Oh, my God. Will you ever stop being so crass?” His hand gently touches the small of my back, and an electric wave of heat ripples over my body.
“I can be any number of things you’d like,” he whispers near my ear. Then he’s pulling me into his strong embrace, leading me effortlessly in a slow dance. My gaze is stuck on his chest, my muscles bunched tightly, as I will my limbs to relax.
I can’t help but to compare him with Lucas. The way Ryder holds me possessively, like he’s daring anyone to take me from his arms. How Lucas domineered the dance, making sure I followed his lead. Ryder leads, but with a give that allows me to change the pace if I deem.
Ryder pulls me closer, which should be the most awkward thing; he’s so much taller than me, just so much more…everything. But my body molds seamlessly against his. My skin tingling with anticipation of his touch.
With a sigh of doomed acceptance, my will being completely obliterated, I look up to find his eyes. Those glacier blues that are staring right into me. “You know this is a bad idea,” I say, surprising myself with my honesty. But I mean it. Nothing good can come of us being together in any form.
Ryder only smiles. “I know any bad idea with you can only be interesting.”
Damn, but he’s going to be trouble.
14
Ryder
I’ve danced with girls before. At formals, and prom. I was duty-bound. Dancing just…I don’t ever consider it, really. I don’t mind it, but I don’t go out of my way to make it happen. Not even at clubs.
If a chick snaps me up to dance at a bar, hell, I’ll go for it. Whatever usually works to make her happy and leads to me getting with her later. That’s how it works.
But right now, this minute, I’m invested. This isn’t a simple dance with a girl at an event. This is the defensive line being tested. The prelude to the after. And what’s strange, I feel no desire to rush it—to skip over quickly to get to the next part.
My hand rests against Ari’s back, hovering between firm and relaxed. I’m conscious of applying just the right amount of pressure. With Ari, if you push too hard, she bolts. If you don’t push at all, she withdraws into herself. For the short time I’ve known her, been paying attention to her, I’ve figured that much out.
Her silky dress feels fragile against my big hand. I’m trying hard to keep my eyes on her face as she looks up at me, but my gaze keeps drifting to her bare shoulders, the creamy skin on display that looks as soft as I imagine it feels. Her dark hair has been swept up into some up-do that leaves a few ringlets tumbling over those sexy shoulders.
I’m a starving, condemned man, just needing a taste. I release her hand to brush a loose strand from her shoulder. My fingers gently glide across her skin, taking in the satiny warmth, and I feel her shiver against me. It stirs a deep sigh from my chest.
Her freed hand snakes up along my chest as she wraps her arms around my shoulders. Her hands lock together behind my neck, and I’m aware that this is difficult, because of the height difference. But I’m not complaining one fucking bit. It forces her body all the closer because of it. Her breasts press up against my chest, her stomach aligns with my waist, her thighs flush to mine.
We’re barely moving now. Swaying just slightly. I’m tempted to pull her farther into that dark corner.
Ari tilts back her head farther. Her eyes—lit liquid amber by the light—flick over my face as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A groan lodges in my throat, my whole body aching to be alone with her.
“Arian,” a deep male voice says, interrupting the entrancing moment.
Both our heads whip around, our bodies putting more than an inch of space between us.
“You should introduce us to your friend,” he continues. He’s tall and wiry, but not weak. Built how a solid businessman should be. His dark hair is short and sculpted neatly to the side, his facial features all hard angles. Important.
I don’t need the proper introduction to know who this man is, but Ari proceeds at his request. “Father, this is Ryder Nash. The quarterback for the Braxton Bobcats.”
Releasing Ari from my hold completely, I step toward him and punctuate the air with an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
His slight hesitation is witnessed briefly, but I keep my hand steady, until he accepts it with a hard shake. “Pleased to meet you, Ryder.” He gives my hand a firm squeeze before releasing it and wrapping an arm around the woman next to him. “This is my wife, Becca Wyndemere.” She nods, and I acknowledge her back. Then, “So, college football. That’s great. What year are you?”