Chapter Eight #3
Ari spotted her, a pretty blonde in a dress that stood out even in the dimmer light. She was being led out to the dance floor by a short man with his hair slicked back.
“It begins with a bob and a weave,” Zervou said, with some humor. “He pulls her in, she returns with a duck, a break.”
Amused at the boxing terms being used to describe the couple’s dancing, Ari kept watching as Zervou narrated.
“He feints, then moves in, but she parries. Gives him a paw—nothing real. No, she likes the dance, but she’s not going for the knockout.”
“I guess it depends on what you consider the knockout in dancing. She’s got her clinch,” Ari said. “Maybe that was the KO all along.” She turned her attention from the couple to him, found herself grinning. Which was just…strange.
There was a strange weightlessness to these days.
Even with training, she didn’t have to worry about her mother.
Whether the facility did its job or not, Mom was safe and couldn’t get into bigger trouble or drag Ari into trouble she couldn’t talk or pay her way out of.
Ari didn’t have to worry about money or groceries—both because Zervou kept feeding and clothing her and because her mother wasn’t here to gamble it away.
For the first time in her entire life, she didn’t have to worry about anything except her training.
And perhaps the physical reaction she had to the man who was supposed to help her end her father.
“Come,” he instructed, standing and holding out his hand for her to take.
So she did. Let him guide her out to the crush of bodies. Like the woman in pink, she did a bob, a weave, a feint, making him laugh—a low sound that rumbled through her like fire.
But then he pulled her into the hard heat of his body, in time with the pulsing beat around them. The dress he’d chosen for her offered a cutout of skin at her back and abdomen, and his hand found the spot on her back.
If drinking alcohol felt as good as his hands on her skin, maybe she could understand her mother’s addiction. Maybe she could understand a lot of things that had previously been out of her reach.
Chalk it up to life experiences. As dangerous and ephemeral as boxing. She was well-versed in all the sacrifices a person had to make for the high of victory. She found it worth it. Every single time.
He pointed to their table, so she turned to look. “Our drinks have come,” he said into her ear.
They could go back, sip their drinks, talk, but she liked this. The way it felt like boxing and life and a million other things she’d never been able to allow herself.
He was behind her as she swayed to the music, ignoring the drinks, and she did the most out-of-character thing she could think of.
She allowed herself to lean back into him, the strong, muscular wall of him.
She reached back, hooked an arm around his neck and swayed to the erotic beat of the music.
He had one hand on her hip, while one arm came around her, just under her breasts, with a large possessive hand pressed right where the little cutout of her dress bared her skin.
“Let’s keep dancing,” she said. Her stomach shivered under the weight of his hand. A pulsing need throbbed through her entire body. They swayed, and she could feel the heat of him seep into her. She could feel the hard length of him against the small of her back. An erotic thrill.
He was Zervou Kritikos, and she had this effect on him. So she leaned into it, even more into him, into the sway of bodies. She let her body move with his, against his. Reveled in the sensations spreading out across the expanse of her bare skin.
When one song moved into the other, she made no move to return to their table or the drinks. She kept her arm hooked around him, his front to her back. Their bodies fitted together, her heart beating in time with the music and his breath against her ear.
“Are you teasing me, glikí mou?” His voice was a rumbled caress against her ear.
“Sounds like a dangerous proposition,” she replied. “A risk, to tease someone such as you.”
“Indeed. I would suggest being ready to accept the consequences of such behavior.” His hand moved down her abdomen, her muscles contracting at the contact. Gentle fingers traced the hoop at her belly button, but there was nothing gentle about the grip his other hand had on her hip.
She liked the contrast. The heat. The adrenaline pumping through her veins and echoing in her ears along with the beat of the music. She liked watching the sea of people drink, laugh, dance while she could only feel Zervou behind her, feel him touch her, his breath against her ear.
She knew there were two roads here. Enjoy this moment, go back to their table and accept it was all pretend. She could also take a slight detour.
The deal is not about sex. But it is hardly off the table if you should decide you’re interested.
Not a deviation, not a change of direction, just a nice little…side quest.
“Perhaps I will like the consequences,” she decided aloud.
That grip on her hip tightened, sending another bolt of thrill and want through her. “Then I suggest we go somewhere more private.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, met that smoldering gaze. “Lead the way.”