Page 254 of Faking the Goal

"I don't dance."

I turn around, walking backward as I pull him after me. "Everyone dances."

"I don't."

"Then congratulations. Tonight is a night of personal growth."

His expression tells me exactly where I can shove my personal growth, but he follows me anyway, which is really all that matters.

Once we're swallowed by the crowd, I pivot in his arms until my back presses against his chest and let the music pull me into its rhythm. Kentaro's hands settle on my hips almost immediately, warm and insistent, following the slow sway of my body as the bass vibrates through the floor and into my bones.

So much for I don't dance.

He matches me effortlessly, his body moving close behind mine as his palms glide from my hips to my waist and slowly back down again. There's nothing tentative about the way he touches me. Why would there be? I know these hands now. I know what they feel like on me without music pounding around us or hundreds of bodies packed onto a dance floor, and when I press back against him, his fingers tighten as if he's remembering exactly the same thing.

Maybe this is a terrible fucking idea.

I let the next beat roll through my hips and deliberately grind back against him. His arm immediately hooks around my waist and pulls me flush against him, dragging a sharp breath from my lungs.

"Careful, trouble," he murmurs against my ear, his voice low and rough enough to send a shiver down my spine.

The warning only makes me do it again.

I roll my hips against him more slowly this time, and his breath warms the side of my neck as his hand spreads across my stomach, keeping me firmly against him while our bodies move to the same lazy rhythm. I tilt my head and catch his eyes over my shoulder, and the look staring back at me sends another rush of heat through my veins.

He's not watching the room anymore.

He's watching me.

His gaze follows the movement of my body against his before lifting back to my face, dark and unapologetic, and I don't need to wonder what he's thinking. Not anymore. I know what that look means. I know what these hands are capable of when there isn't a crowded nightclub stopping them from going any further, and judging by the way his grip tightens every time I move against him, he's thinking about it too.

God.

Maybe it's the alcohol warming my blood, but I don't think so. This is a different kind of intoxication altogether. Every movement feeds the next until I can't tell which one of us is provoking the other anymore. I press closer and his arm tightens. I roll my hips and his hand follows. My eyes fall to his mouth, and when I look up again, his are already fixed on mine.

And fuck, the look in them nearly destroys whatever restraint I have left.

There's something almost feral in his gaze, a raw, consuming hunger that tells me exactly how badly he wants to kiss me. His eyes drop to my lips again, and for one dizzying second, I can practically feel the kiss that hasn't happened yet. The pull of it. The promise. Like the only thing keeping him from taking that last inch between us is whatever shred of control he still has left.

And judging by the way I'm staring back at him, mine isn't doing much better.

The desire between us feels almost unbearable, feeding on every touch, every look, every slow movement of our bodies until the music becomes secondary to whatever the hell is happening between us. The whole damn club could disappear around us, and I'm not sure either of us would notice.

The song bleeds into something slower, the bass dropping into a deeper, heavier rhythm, and Kentaro turns me in his arms without ever really letting me go. I end up facing him with my arms looped around his neck, his hands settling low on my waist as we keep moving, slower now but somehow even more intimate than before.

This is worse.

At least with my back to him, I could pretend I wasn't completely losing my mind. Now I have to watch him watching me, his eyes still carrying that same hungry intensity while our bodies move together with barely an inch between them. My fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck, and his hands tighten instinctively, pulling me closer.

A slow smile curves my lips. "You know, for someone who claims he doesn't dance, you're surprisingly good at this."

"I'm not."

"Could've fooled me." I tighten my arms around his neck. "So what changed tonight?"

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. "Maybe I just needed the right woman."

Oh.