Chapter 3
3
Shanna
T he event’s emcee announces the beginning of the charity dances, and I poise myself in a chair, plastic smile in place, at the edge of the ballroom.
People around me are pairing up for the first of the dances, names and smiles being exchanged. I smooth my hair in place. That twisting of my stomach is not a pang of hurt. I’m sorry that the charity loses out if no one bids on my dances, but I can’t help if people believe stupid gossip. On a bright note, sitting back will give me an opportunity to observe my competition, since most of the competitive dancers are here…just in case Kristoff and I still have a chance to win.
Tomorrow, I’ll get to the bottom of that shocking video. I’m not giving up on years of hard work and my dreams of being a champion without a fight.
“I believe this dance is mine.”
That deep voice startles me. My gaze bounces up. My heart stops at his incredibly handsome face. Strong features, burning hazel eyes, heavy five-o’clock shadow, perfectly tailored gray suit with a vavoom red tie. He has a killer smile and sin written all over him.
Alejandro Diaz. I should have guessed a man as insistent as he’s been wouldn’t accept my first refusal.
“Have we met?” I don’t dare let on that I not only remember him, but I’ve thought about him. He’ll only get more determined.
He smiles, all dazzling charm, oozing Latin charisma and hot sex. “Three months ago. The Bartolino Foundation thing.”
That night rushes through my head, heating my body. He flirted outrageously, whispering shocking, hot suggestions as he tangoed me around the dance floor. At the end of the night, he asked me out…while trying to seduce me. Even being near him made me startlingly dizzy, complete with revving heartbeat. Nothing has changed.
That’s terrifying.
When I have to bring a date to a social occasion—the only time I go out—I choose safe men who are too busy with their own work to be demanding and too dull to keep my interest for more than an evening. I’ve refused every would-be lover for the past two years without a single regret. But Alejandro is beyond tempting. The man might as well have the word Distraction tattooed on his forehead.
I don’t have time for a relationship.
“Ah, I think you recall that night.” A smile lifts the edges of his lips.
“Alejandro, isn’t it?”
“Diaz, yes.”
Steeling myself against the impact of his touch, I slide my hand in his. No matter how prepared I thought I was for skin-on-skin contact, I was horribly wrong. A wild gong of want beats through me the second my palm brushes his. I brace for the rush of heat as I stand.
“The music is starting. Shall we?” He gestures to the dance floor, then eases me forward with a hand at the small of my back.
An involuntary shudder rolls through me.
“Sure.” What else can I say? This is his three minutes; he’s paid for them, so I owe him that.
But not a second more.
A soft Latin rhythm begins to fill the room from the overhead speakers. Sensual and hypnotic, the music speaks of a humid summer night shared by lovers. I nearly groan. Great, a rumba, the dance of love. The one that most emulates passion and sex. As a first dance, why?
Alejandro grabs my wrist and pulls me against him. I try to stop myself from crashing against his body by planting a hand on his chest. But my fingers only encounter hard muscle. He’s like a rock under that starched shirt, and given his mile-wide shoulders, I’m suddenly sure that seeing him naked would be ten times better than a slice of sinful chocolate cake.
He hooks a finger under my chin. Reluctantly, I lift my gaze. The heat in his hazel eyes could melt steel. Look away. Get away! But I can’t. Once our gazes connect, I’m locked in, fused to him in a way I don’t understand.
That stare sizzles all through me…and settles right between my legs. I can’t break his gaze.
In the past, sex has been something I could take or leave. At the moment, I ache to take anything he’s willing to give me.
How can he do that to me with a mere glance?
As I try to find my breath and my wits, he curls a thick arm around my waist, drawing me even closer. His whole body is hard…every inch of it. From the feel of him, many inches. I’m beyond tempted.
Thank god these dances are short.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur as we take our positions. “I’m a bit…distracted tonight.”
“Then allow me to help your focus, querida. ” He pulls me closer, his tone warning that he means to get his way—and have his way with me.
I gulp. When I’m near Alejandro, I can’t seem to focus on anything but the most forbidden.
We begin to dance. He’s incredibly smooth, never dancing on his heels, never losing the beat of the music. And wow, can he move his hips. Perfect figure eights with them. Somewhere along the way, he learned how to dance very well.
Basic boxes quickly give way to an open position, then a cross, which he uses as an opportunity to brush his body against mine and caress my hip. An underarm turn leads me right back to a basic.
He’s really good for an amateur. Everything about the way he moves suggests that he’d be great in bed.
“So, what brings you here tonight?” I ask, grasping at conversational straws. Maybe if we’re talking, I won’t be thinking about how much Alejandro turns me on.
“Isn’t helping orphans a worthwhile cause?”
“It is. Absolutely. But most men would rather simply write a check than ballroom dance.”
“My mother enjoys these things, and giving up an evening is a small price to see her smile.”
Sexy, a good dancer, family-oriented, crazy handsome—Alejandro Diaz seems like every woman’s fantasy. Surely, he’s too good to be true. He must have some terrible flaw I can’t see.
If not…I’m in deep trouble.
My body temperature rises with every suggestive look, every sweep of his hand over my waist and low dive on my hip, each brush of his palm that inches toward my ass.
I’m regretting now that I haven’t allowed a man to scratch my itch in the last two years. Or even invested in a good vibrator. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t feel so tightly wound right now.
“That’s nice of you.” I smile politely.
“Not really. I also came because I knew you would be here.”
My breath catches. “Me?”
“Hmm.” He leads me into another open position, then curls me against his body, my hips crushed against his. “Certainly you feel my…enthusiasm to see you again.”
Definitely. It’s sizable and very hard to miss.
Then he leans me over his arm in an exaggerated dip and follows me until his face is an inch from my breasts. I feel him exhale, his warm breath caressing my cleavage. My nipples bead instantly.
Slowly, he stands me upright again, then spins me until my back rests against his chest. He nestles his erection in the small of my back. The flat of his palm covers my abdomen, and he takes my other hand in his. The gesture must look possessive. It feels that way.
Straight ahead, I see Kristoff dancing with a thin, middle-aged woman whose hair is a dubious shade of red. He peers at me with a questioning brow raised.
Alejandro leads me to swivel my hips against his, in time with the music. Kristoff doesn’t miss a second of our bodies rolling together. In fact, as I look around, I realize we’ve sucked up most of the attention in the room.
A blast of moisture floods my pussy. When people watch me, I get excited. Right now, I hate how true that is.
“Everyone is watching us,” he whispers.
“I see that.” My voice shakes.
He bends and lifts my leg, wrapping my calf around his thigh and urging my head back to his shoulder. Our eyes meet, our mouths inches apart.
His stare strips me naked. God, if he doesn’t stop, I’ll melt against him.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear, his hand creeping up, dangerously close to my breast.
He spins me to face him, then settles my leg over his hip, pressing his hard cock against my aching center. I swallow back a gasp as our chests press closer. He can probably feel my runaway heartbeat, just like I hear his pounding. His stare is unbearably intimate.
I’m terrified he can read my mind.
“The men staring all want you,” he whispers. “And you like having their eyes on you, don’t you?”