48. Lance #3
His palm burns through my shirt. I step in close until my chest presses against his, until I can feel the steady thud of his heart against mine. Months. It’s been months since I’ve been this close to him, and every cell in my body remembers.
George doesn’t dance. But he moves like he does this all the time, guiding me with quiet authority.
His other hand finds mine, fingers threading together with a grip that feels both gentlemanly and filthy.
Every shift of his hips, every subtle press of his palm on my back, sends heat licking down my spine.
“You can dance,” I say, almost accusing.
“Who says I can’t?” His eyes meet mine. “I just don’t.”
I swallow hard. He’s trying. He’s moving like he belongs here, even though I know he’s never had much reason to learn how places like this work.
I grip his shoulder too tightly. My free hand curls into the fabric of his suit. We’re not even close to scandalous, but it feels obscene—the hard line of his thigh brushing mine, the way his breath ghosts warm against my temple when we turn, the slow roll of his body against mine.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it.
“How did you even get in here?” I manage.
“Your brother,” he answers simply.
“That motherfucker.”
George’s mouth quirks. His hand slides a fraction lower on my back, fingers pressing firmer, pulling me closer in a way that feels dangerously proprietary for a public dance floor.
“Not so bad,” he murmurs after a moment. “Didn’t know what the fuss was about, being rich. All the fancy rooms and fancy rules. But at the end of the day…people are still just people. Some of them are decent. Some aren’t. Money doesn’t change that part. Just makes the clothes nicer.”
He’s quiet for a second, turning us slowly under the chandelier light.
“Watched you up there tonight. With all of them.” His voice is low, just for me. “Probably never gonna fit in a place like this. Not the way you do.”
He holds me just slightly tighter, like he needs to feel me there while he says it.
“Used to think that meant I had no business being anywhere near it. Anywhere near you.”
A pause, his eyes boring into me.
“Done thinking that.”
He pulls me in tighter, one big hand sliding possessively lower on my back, thumb stroking slow circles along my spine.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” he says, hot against my ear. “Been trying not to stare at you too much.”
The words hit me straight in the chest and between my legs at the same time. I nearly combust on the spot. I have to fight the ridiculous urge to hide my face in his shoulder. I won’t admit how completely he undoes me with something so simple.
The song ends too soon.
George leans in, lips brushing my hair.
“Come with me.”
The words hit like a spark on dry tinder. My entire body reacts. There’s a rush of want so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
We slip out to grab our coats. George drapes his heavy wool overcoat around my shoulders without asking, the fabric still carrying his warmth. It swallows me, and for a second I let myself drown in it.
Side exit. The Seattle night hits cold as we step into the alley.
No one follows. George keeps one hand at the small of my back as we walk, guiding me left down the quiet side street, away from the valets and lingering guests.
The award is tucked under my arm. My dress shoes click on the damp pavement.
Two blocks of charged silence stretch between us, thick enough to taste.
The coat helps, but the real heat is coming from inside me, from the way he’s walking half a step ahead like he knows exactly where this night is going.
George stops under a streetlight.
I step up beside him, and my brain stalls out completely.
No. Fucking. Way.
I turn fully toward it, staring like an idiot. It’s the Gran Torino Sport in a shade of green so dark it’s almost black under the lot lights, chrome catching what little glow there is. Hood scoop. Perfect lines. The whole beautiful, ridiculous machine.
“Is that…”
George grunts beside me, watching my face way too closely. “That’s the one.”
I blink at him, then back at the car.
I move before my better judgment can stop me, circling slowly around the front. By the time I reach the front passenger’s side, I rest my hand on the roof. The metal is cold under my palm.
“Your dad’s dream car,” I say, almost a whisper. “You actually finished it.”
“A while ago,” he responds. He sways a bit, looking strangely unsure of himself for a man built as huge as him. “Had it shipped here.”
I face him, and there again—that tightly controlled hope he’s been carrying these past few months. Seeing it almost hurts.
“Would you like to ride with me, Lance?”
The invitation catches me off guard, and then I suddenly remember that night in his garage back in San Diego. Me sitting on his workbench, making him promise I’d be the first passenger once he finally got this thing running.
Apparently, this stubborn bastard remembered it too.
I hold his gaze over the roof of the car, and then reach for the handle. I climb in before my brain reminds me this is still the man who broke my heart.