Love Story (Love Unexpectedly 3)

I expect her to protest, but she merely laughs happily. “Yeah, I figured.”

I frown, a little annoyed to be dismissed so easily. My frown turns to a full-on scowl when Lucy all but bounces out of her chair. The gesture has her neck tilting back, and for about the hundredth time this evening I realize my mistake in encouraging her to dress up.

She must have packed the short, hot-pink dress for Oscar, because it’s flirty and sexy and hotter than fuck. The top is fitted and strapless, clinging precariously to perky round breasts, the skirt hitting at that teasing part of mid-thigh that says Look but don’t touch.

Through the open patio doors, I keep my eye on the dance floor, annoyed every time someone moves to block my view, relieved when Lucy comes into sight again.

Well, relieved and turned on.

I don’t know the name of the song, nor the artist, but it’s vaguely familiar. Some hot top-forty number with a sultry female voice that apparently begs to be writhed to, because Lucy’s movements are ninety percent hip wiggle.

I’m not the only one who notices. A tall guy approaches and without missing a beat, his hands find her hips, his movements matching hers as they grind in perfect unison to the song.

My beer freezes halfway to my lips. What the hell is this?

It looks fucking choreographed. My beer slams back down to the table when Lucy’s arm lifts, her hand hooking idly around the other guy’s neck as she leans into him, her head against his chest, lips parted.

Her eyes close as the guy’s hand moves down slightly, then up again, lifting her skirt a bit, and I’m moving before I can stop myself.

The song fades into another as I step onto the dance floor, a Latin song with a sexy, driving rhythm. I watch the man’s hands slide toward her ass as her arms lift to drape over his shoulders and pull him closer.

And then I’m there, shoving him out of the way, my hands replacing his.

“Hey—”

“Mine,” I growl at him.

To his credit, the dude merely lifts his hands in surrender before backing away. I don’t know where he goes after that, because my eyes are locked on Lucy.

I expect her to be pissed at my high-handedness, but although she goes momentarily still, she recovers quickly, her arms wrapping around my neck as she picks up the rhythm once more, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that her movements are slower now. Sexier. Seductive.

I move right along with her.

I’m not one for dancing, but this I can handle. This slow swaying is little more than a grind, and though I don’t know a lick of Spanish, the gist of the song is clear. It’s a promise of hot sweaty nights, of my hands on her skin, my mouth on her mouth….

I’ve pulled her closer now, a little unnerved by how right it feels that after all this time we move together so well.

The rhythm shifts; there’s an interlude with a woman’s voice, and Lucy pulls back slightly, hands sliding over my chest, her gaze locked on mine, teeth dragging against her bottom lip in blatant seduction.

She slowly turns, and my fingers grip harder, thinking she means to move away, but she’s merely pivoting, turning so that her back’s pressed to my chest, her small ass tucked against me.

Shit. Holy hell and fuck. I’m dying.

I can’t help myself. My hands skim over her sides, down over her hips, slowly teasing the fabric upward, just enough so that my fingertips can touch her bare outer thighs. I feel her freeze for a half second before she resumes her torturous wiggling, more deliberate this time, her ass teasing my cock which hardens more with every breath.

We go on like this endlessly, torturing each other, the music, the lack of words, the unfamiliar city somehow letting us pretend that this is all a dream. That in real life, we didn’t break each other’s hearts, that we won’t hate each other tomorrow.

The song slows to a stop long before I’m ready, the DJ coming on the microphone to babble about some shit.

Lucy turns back around slowly, both of us breathing hard as we stare at each other.

What was that? her green eyes ask.

I shake my head once. Don’t know.

The closest I can come up with is dry humping, and that’s not nearly sexy enough to describe what just happened.

Without a word, she turns and walks back toward our table. She picks up her drink, which is now mostly just ice and water, but I grab her wrist and pull the drink away.