One is a Promise(8)

Which is why I don’t hesitate to step over one of those muscular thighs and sit on the edge of the table, putting my legs between his. I don’t expect him to lean away, and he doesn’t disappoint.

Bent forward at the waist with his hands folded together between us, he immerses me in the endless oceans of his eyes before lowering his gaze to my lips. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”

“Nope.” I lean closer, a kiss away. “Why are you here?”

His scowl darkens. “I already told you.”

“Your mouth says one thing, but your eyes say another.”

Raw, unguarded turbulence stirs the air around us, and I glory in it, breathing it in with deep inhales. I never thought I’d experience this feeling again—the feverish thrill in my belly, the throbbing lust between my legs, the reckless hope blooming in my chest.

His lips part. The angles of his face soften, and something passes through his gaze. Something he doesn’t want to give me, because it falls away with one slow blink, replaced with an uncompromising expression and resting frown.

“I’m closing Bissara and reopening it at the casino.” He removes a folded document from the interior pocket of his suit jacket.

“What?” I straighten and set the glass on table beside my hip. “What about the employees?”

“Most will be offered jobs at the new location. Including you.” He hands me the paperwork. “These are the terms of your employment.”

For the next few minutes, I read through the multi-page contract. I only dance at Bissara twice a week, but according to this, he’s tripling my hourly wage? I’m goddamn giddy until I reach the section about my required schedule. “Five nights a week? No way. I teach dance classes on—”

“You’re barely scraping by on the revenue from those classes.” He sweeps his haughty gaze over my yard-sale furniture and scuffed-up wood floors. “I’m offering you an opportunity to earn a more comfortable living.”

“I’ve been scraping by for years. That’s what people do.” Irritation heats my cheeks, and I suddenly wish I wasn’t sitting so damn close to him. “I think your level of comfort looks a whole lot different than mine, Mr. Savoy.”

“Trace.”

“Do all your employees refer to you by first name?”

“None.” Only his lips move, his eyes steady as ever, drilling into mine.

“Do you treat your employees with personal visits to their homes?”

“No.” He bites the word.

I fold the contract, set it aside, and lean in, drifting so close the mint on his breath tingles my lips. “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. The only response he gives.

“Okay, I’ll take a stab at the answer.” I slide my fingers beneath his silver necktie, caressing the fine silk. “You watched me dance at Bissara. You liked what you saw. Maybe you assume a woman who gyrates her hips like that is an easy lay. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the powerful Trace Savoy always gets what he wants.” I give the tie a yank that doesn’t move him. “You came here for me, and it has nothing to do with that contract.”

He grips the silk above my fingers and tugs it. Tug, tug, tug, until the end slips from my hand. “I find your forwardness off-putting.”

My neck goes taut. “I could say the same thing about your fuck-me eyes.”

“Fuck-me eyes.” His deep unflappable voice swirls around me in a smoky mist. “Curious conversation for someone wearing an engagement ring.”

I press my thumb against the silver band and picture the woman I used to be. Free-spirited, happy, and forward as hell. She’s been curled up in the fetal position for too damn long.

“I’m not engaged anymore.” I avert my gaze.

“Then he’s as idiotic as the one you were with tonight.”

The need to defend Cole sizzles in my stomach like a hot ember. “Maybe I’m a total raging bitch and drove him away.”

“Now I know you’re lying.” He brushes an errant strand of hair behind my ear, making my breath catch. “You, my tiny dancer, are an erotic dream dipped in the sweetest honey. A man only needs to look at you to become fiercely protective of your smile.” His finger traces the ridge of my bottom lip. “Of every limber curve.” He feathers a path over the heaving swell of my chest. “Every delicious tremble.”

He lifts from the couch to bow over me, forcing me backwards with his massive frame. My spine presses against the coffee table, and I squeeze my legs together between the straddling V of his. No part of him touches me, but he doesn’t have to. His bedroom eyes are enough to crank my pulse and plunge my senses into delirious disorientation.