Page 20 of The Hunter’s Affection

Chapter 6

Three drinks.

Three.

Champagne and absinthe, whatever that was.

Well, she needed some liquid courage.

Charlotte had never seen such a display before in her life. She was supposed to be the rule follower. The one who urged her friends to stop “borrowing” the luggage racks from the hotel downtown and using them as scooters because, well, they were for luggage. She could have as much fun as the next gal on a girls’ night, but this place was something else. It was debauchery.

Now Torr was following suit, drinking his whiskey in record time, or what would have been record time for her.

She couldn’t stand the stuff.

Had she really asked him to dance? To . . . this? Charlotte loved dance music, but not so much techno.

She had clearly lost it.

First of all, she couldn’t stand the guy. He was even more high-handed than her father, and that was saying something. If she dated someone like him, insomuch as Torr was likely to date anyone, she’d probably do the one thing she’d sworn she’d never, ever, ever do.

Become her mother.

She loved her mom, really she did, all of their baggage aside. But a lifetime of being ordered about was not for her.

The only explanation for her invitation was the alcohol. Or the trippy atmosphere.

“I would like to dance,” Torr said, clicking his empty glass onto the counter. “Let’s go.”

And before she could explain that she’d taken temporary leave of her senses, Torr grabbed her hand.

Grabbed. As in, wrapped his hand around hers like a vise. A warm, hard, all-encompassing vise that hinted at what else might happen were she willing to give up her control.

The dance floor vibrated beneath her feet as the “dancers” around them flirted with taking their grinding a step too far. She still couldn’t believe all this was legal.

Holy shit.

Alessandra’s favorite phrase was perfect for this situation. She was about to tell Torr that this certainly wasn’t the kind of dancing she’d had in mind, but then he started to move.

She really should say she’d changed her mind. Lie and say she hated to dance, but she wasn’t blind. Or completely without nerve endings. Those shoulders, those legs, that butt . . .

Her body went all Brutus on her. Her hands reached up to cross around his neck while his came to rest just above her hip.

She swallowed, noticing his shoulders were as hard and unforgiving as his hands, and made herself look away.

And immediately jolted.

“You’re overthinking this,” he said, squeezing her hip.

“Look. Around. Us.”

He did.

Bunny ears. Black leather. Red leather. Lots and lots and lots of skin. And breasts. Nearly bare breasts.

That could hardly be called a shirt. The strips of material only just concealed her—

“For once in your life, stop worrying.”