Chapter 7: The Dance

I put my hand in his anyway.

The band had slowed into something old, a song my grandmother used to hum.

He led me out onto the floor.

He probably had.

Wyatt Chisholm had danced at every charity ball in this city.

Four men had taken turns being good at it.

His hand settled on my back, lower than Cian's had been.

He pulled me in until my breasts brushed his jacket, and there was nowhere to look but up at his face.

"Your watch is on the wrong wrist," I said.

He didn't miss a step.

"Is it."

"Cian wore his on the left tonight. You wear yours on the right when you're you. I saw it at dinner."

"Most people don't look at a man's wrists."

"Most people aren't married to four of them."

The corner of his mouth moved.

It wasn't a smile.

It was the place a smile would have been on a different man.

"You sent the call," I said. "Cian looked at his phone like it had bitten him."

He didn't deny it.

"Why?"

He turned me under his arm, slow, and pulled me back in, closer than before.

I felt the whole length of him.

The hard line of his thigh between mine. The heat of him through the thin silk. His breath against my temple.

"Because I wanted one dance," he said quietly, "before you hate me."

My heart was going so hard I was sure he could feel it.

"Why would I hate you?"

He didn't answer.

His thumb moved on the small of my back, once, a slow circle over my spine.

My knees went stupid.

I hated that too.

"You told me not to trust you," I said. "Least of all."

"I meant it."

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