Page 23

Wife. Caretaker. Good daughter. The good, steady woman who doesn't ask for more.

And somewhere along the way… I forgot to ask if I still wanted to be her.

Then he's there.

The stranger from the police station stops beside my table, materializing from the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, devastating in a perfectly tailored black tux. His presence pulls every ounce of oxygen from the air around me.

"Can I have this dance?" His voice is low, smooth, and impossibly confident.

My heart slams against my ribs so hard I'm sure he can hear it. For a second, I can't speak. I haven't been asked to dance in years. I rise on legs that feel like warm liquid, my pulse thunders in my ears. When I slide my hand into his, electricity crackles up my arm, straight down my spine, and pools hot and heavy between my thighs.

God, what is happening to me?

"I have to warn you," I caution, barely recognizing my breathy voice, "I have no idea how to dance."

His deep, melodious laugh rolls over me like warm velvet. "Just follow me."

He leads me onto the floor and pulls me into his arms. One large hand settles at the small of my back, the other holds mine firmly. The moment our bodies align, I feel him, really feel him. The hard wall of his chest, the enormous muscles shifting beneath the fine fabric of his jacket, the strength in his arms and shoulders. He's solid. Powerful. And I melt.

The music swells around us, slow and sensual. I have no clue what I'm doing, but the man moves like the floor was made for him. He guides me effortlessly, and somehow my body knowsexactly how to answer. Every step presses me closer. My breasts brush his chest. My hips follow the subtle roll of his. Our eyes stay locked the entire time, his blue, intense, unwavering. I couldn't look away even if I wanted to.

"Good girl," he murmurs in a rough voice against my ear as I follow a particularly smooth turn.

The praise hits me like a spark on dry tinder. My eyelids flutter. Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, and lower, God, so much lower. My clit throbs in response, a sharp, needy pulse that makes my breath hitch. I haven't felt this in years. This raw, liquid want.

He spins me again, then suddenly dips me. Low. So low my hair sweeps toward the floor. I gasp as the world tilts, and I'm floating, completely supported by his strength. His body is between my thighs now, one powerful leg braced between mine, his hips pressed intimately against me. The position is filthy and elegant at the same time. I feel every inch of his hard muscle, the heat of him, the easy dominance in the way he holds me suspended like I weigh nothing.

For one dizzying second, I'm weightless, exposed, and utterly at his mercy. A helpless sound escapes my throat. My back arches. My core clenches tight, and I nearly come right there—on a crowded dance floor, in the arms of a man I don't even know—because of how safe and how dangerous he makes me feel all at once.

He pulls me back up slowly, oh so deliberately slowly, our faces are only inches apart, so close, our breaths mingle. His eyes are darker now, his pupils blown wide. I can feel his heart hammering against mine.

"You're doing beautifully," he whispers, thumb brushing the bare skin of my lower back in a slow, possessive stroke.

I'm trembling. Every suppressed desire I've buried for years is roaring to the surface, hot, desperate, and terrifyingly alive.The lonely nights. The polite, dutiful sex with Pete. The aching need to be wanted like this. Held like this. I should be ashamed of how soaked I am, how powerfully my body is reacting to a complete stranger. But right now, wrapped in his arms, following his lead, I don't feel shame.

I feel awake.

He dips me one more time, and when he pulls me back up for one perfect, suspended moment, I'm lost in him, his heat, his strength, the dark hunger in his eyes. Then reality slams into me like ice water.

This isn't Pete.

Of course, it's not Pete.

This is a stranger. A dangerous, beautiful stranger who just made my body react in ways my husband never has. If I don't put distance between us right now, I'm going to drown. I'll lose myself completely in this feeling, in him, and I don't know if I'll be able to come back.

Panic claws up my throat.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, ripping myself from his arms.

I turn and run.

My heels click frantically across the marble floor as I lift the long skirt of my gown with both hands, not caring how ridiculous I must look. I bolt up the grand staircase, my heart hammering so hard it hurts. One heel catches on the step and nearly flies off. I stumble, catch myself, and keep going while a hysterical little giggle bursts out of me.

Cinderella, running from the ball.

Except my prince isn't chasing me, and midnight isn't the problem. The problem is what I felt in his arms. What I still feel pulsing between my legs. Tears spill hot down my cheeks as I reach the top of the stairs. I don't slow down. I can't.

The dance was so beautiful. So perfect. For three minutes, I felt alive, desired,seen. And now I'm going home to a man whowill never make me feel any of those things again. I know what I have to do when I get there, and that thought makes me cry even harder.