Chapter 13
KATIE
Tristan pulls me smoothly into his arms as the band starts playing, and I suppress a shiver as his hand slides over my lower back. It splays there, huge and warm and more intimate than I would have expected through the thin cotton of my shirt.
“Move with me,” he says, beginning to sway.
I try to follow, a beat behind, staring at his hips that seem to move independently of his body.
This is new. Tristan can dance. Really dance.
Not just the swaying he does at Prince family parties or the goofy dances he does in the car when he sings.
He must have jokingly pulled me into his arms a hundred times in the back hallways of the main house while music filtered in from the ballroom and laughter rang in the air.
Dance with me, Bailey. He never lets his talent show, though, which is just so Tristan that I want to step on his foot.
His hand on my back moves me with him through the sensual one-two rocking movement of the dance, keeping me close enough that his belt buckle grazes my stomach.
“Eyes up here.” He chuckles, and I drag my gaze up from where I’m watching his hips, over the lean planes of his torso, his broad shoulders and strong throat, to his smiling mouth and laughing eyes.
“You can dance,” I say, still a little awed by this new side of my best friend.
“I can dance.” He grins.
I poke him in the chest. “You never told me. When do you practice?”
“Alone in front of my mirror.” He winks, and I laugh.
“I can picture that, actually. With a YouTube video on and everything.” Tristan wants to be the best at everything he does, just like I do.
“Don’t need that,” he says. “Under my arm. There you go.” He turns me smoothly and catches me again, closer this time.
“We all learned as kids. My—uh—mom insisted.” There’s a hitch in his voice and shadows in his eyes.
He never talks about his mom, and my heart seems to squeeze in my chest. I know she left when he was young.
It must have hurt. It must have broken his heart.
“She did? Why?”
Everything I’ve heard about his mom indicates she didn’t give a shit about her kids back then and she only cares about herself now.
I google her regularly. It’s part of my job, in case she ever becomes a liability.
She appears to have no interest in the family.
Does Tristan ever look? I’ve never asked, because I know he doesn’t like when people poke at his sore spots, but now I badly want to know.
“The spare still needs to be able to dance,” he says. “Run a company. Speak three languages and have fancy degrees he won’t use.”
His voice is light as he speaks. Classic Tristan. The more it hurts, the more he hides it. The ache in my chest won’t stop, and he must see it, because his hand tightens.
“None of that now. Don’t be sad just because you’re a shitty dancer. I’ll make you good by the end of this.”
He winks, and I let him continue to move me, catching on to the one-two motion myself, letting the fast, sensual music pour through me.
“Good,” he croons. “Now shut your eyes and feel. I won’t let you fall.”
My lashes flutter closed, even though it feels weird to do this. As we move, my other senses come into focus.
“This is how I learned to shoot,” I tell him.
“Blindly? Good god, Bailey. I’m locking my doors at night.”
I shove at his chest, and he captures my hand against him and keeps it there, over his pounding heart.
“No. By letting my other senses take over. Breathing, stilling my heart. When I opened my eyes, everything would be clearer.”
“It’s a bit like that, yes. You need to feel the music. Come closer. Feel it how I do.”
I’m not sure I’ll ever feel it like Tristan does, but I let him press me into him until our stomachs brush with every motion.
His hands drop to my hips, controlling me.
“Smoother,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing into the sides of my body, making me nearly arch against him.
His stomach is warm where it brushes mine, and for a brief, shivery moment, the seam of his jeans rasps against me.
He chuckles as I struggle to match his speed.
“What are you afraid of?”
My heart jolts. So many things. Trying my best and failing anyway. Counting on people and having them leave. Never being chosen.
“Of being seen.” The words slip out, and I tense. Being seen and not being chosen anyway. Exposing the best parts of myself and still having someone walk away. I expect Tristan to laugh it off.
His breath puffs against my neck. “Terrifying,” he agrees. “Not relevant on the dance floor.”
I stiffen. “Why?”
“Because everyone can see you anyway.” His voice seems to slide along my neck. “Might as well have fun.”
I can’t help my laugh. He chuckles in my ear. “You need to let go.”
“And how would you suggest I do that?” My words are distracted as heat gathers in my stomach. I’m having a hard time focusing on what I should be doing with Tristan’s hands on me.
“Feisty today, Bailey. Be one with the music.” His breath ghosts over my neck. “Can’t you feel it? Isn’t it in your blood? It’s in mine.”
I don’t excel at losing control. I let out a frustrated exhale but try to feel what Tristan’s feeling as we move.
“Give yourself up to it,” he murmurs. “It’s like a heartbeat.
Or the movement of your lungs. You don’t need to think.
You can just be.” He breathes the last word against my neck, and an electric current runs through me.
My skin tingles, my blood heats, and my body melts into his.
He’s all heat and strength and sinful movement.
I can’t tell if his hands move my hips or the reverse. Our breaths sync. I start to feel like I’m sparkling around the edges. Melting into the air. Like I’m drunk on champagne.
“Good job.” His whisper is a puff of air against my ear, and I shiver.
I’m terrified to open my eyes. This will end, and I never want it to end. I want to dance with him forever.
Does he feel it? This wildness? His stubble scrapes my neck, his body curved over mine, his hands clutching me to him like he needs me.
Desire flutters in my stomach.
Oh god.
This isn’t real. This is practice.
I shove down anything remotely resembling a flutter. My mission is to learn what I can and find a guy to sleep with, not feel things for Tristan.
“Do you think I’m ready?”
He stills. I can feel his heart pounding against my back.
“What does ready mean?”
“I feel confident.” I keep swaying, half my mind on my words and the other half on cataloging my body’s reactions.
I feel loose and warm and good. Like I just ran a race and then soaked in a hot tub.
“But I want to turn him on. I want him to be insatiable for me.” My eyes are on the guy across the dance floor from us.
Tristan is frozen behind me, and I turn in his arms. “Tristan?”
His gaze is unreadable, but his jaw is flexing as he watches the guy across the bar.
For a brief moment, I wonder what it would be like to turn Tristan on. I wonder what it would be like to be the type of woman who walks into a room and owns it, someone who could capture even Tristan’s attention.
Does he ever feel unsettled like this?
“Yep.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, you’re ready. I’ll be at the bar when you’re done.”