Page 10 of The Clinch
I stay close enough to feel the warmth of her without touching. My hands hover, restrained on purpose. She notices. Of course she does. Her fingers slice through the air between us, tracing the space I’m not taking, taunting me with it.
She spins, drops low, then snaps back into my space. The hem of her dress skims her thigh, a deliberate flash of skin she knows I see.
I don’t grab her.
Not yet.
The room narrows around us. Sound folds inward. All I hear is the beat and her breath.
The DJ flips tracks. The crowd tightens. Neon slides over her skin, sweat catching at her collarbone, turning her luminous.
I step in.
My hand curves around her hip. She doesn’t pull back.
Then she leans with the smallest shift right into my touch.
My other hand finds her waist, sliding into the dip where her body narrows. She’s soft there, warm, shaped exactly to my palm like she was built for it.
My grip tightens before I tell it to.
I loosen it immediately. She doesn’t notice. Or she notices and doesn’t say anything, which is worse.
Every time she touches me and pulls away, it’s a hit I feel in the center of my ribcage. She rolls into me, hips aligning with mine. Deliberate. Testing the fit.
The lyrics grind overhead, filthy and slow. I move with the rhythm, guiding her deeper into it, every shift measured, every press intentional.
She leans harder. Arms loop around my neck. Her body fits to mine without surrendering an ounce of defiance.
The room disappears.
We end up pinned against the bar, bodies pressed close, my palm braced beside her hip. Her chin tilts up, eyes locked on mine—steady, unflinching, daring me to misread her.
“Still giving me attitude?” I say. “You’d think you’d learn.”
Her expression turns wicked. “Learn what?” A pause. “That you can take up more space?”
Christ.
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t blink. Just names it and leaves me to decide what to do with it.
It’s been her spiel for months. Calling the obvious. Refusing to be impressed by it. Offering just enough space to tempt me, then pulling it back the second I assume it’s mine.
I lean in. My knuckles brush the bare skin of her thigh where the dress rides high. Warm. Smooth. Dangerous.
She could stop me.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she tilts in, granting me another inch, making me earn it.
“Careful.” My voice vibrates between us. “I’m still running hot.”
Her smile doesn’t soften. It sharpens. “Good.”
My attention drops to her mouth. It’s relaxed and unguarded, waiting to see what I do.
She wets her lower lip slowly, like she knows exactly what it costs me. I have to work to keep my jaw loose.
