Page 51 of Bought By Santa

“Why don’t we dance?” I ask, filled up with the fake pleasantries.

Her eyes widen. “You dance?”

I throw my head back and laugh loudly. “Oh, Kitten,” I smirk as I pull her toward the dance floor. “Let’s see if you can keep up.” I hand both our glasses off to one of the servers, noting that Carolina’s wasn’t even half empty, so she can have another one later.

The live band begins the next song just as I lead Carolina onto the dance floor, her hand soft in mine. We glide into a waltz, my hand firm on her back, guiding her effortlessly. The room fades as we move together, perfectly in sync.

“You’re making this so easy,” she laughs, happiness making her blue eyes sparkle. “I guess it’s true what they say, the perfect partner really makes a difference.”

The moment the tango begins, everything sharpens between us. I pull Carolina close, our bodies nearly colliding, the air thick with tension. Her eyes meet mine, blazing with challenge, daring me to take control. The music is relentless, driving us with every beat, demanding precision and passion.

“You’ve seen nothing yet,” I rasp, determined to show her more.

My hand tightens on her back, and I lead her into a sharp turn, our movements quick and forceful. She matches my intensity, pushing back with just enough resistance to make the dance a battle. I dip her low, holding her suspended just above the floor, her breath catching as she hovers in that precarious moment. There’s a flash of trust, but also defiance, as she waits for me to pull her back up.

The music pushes us harder, and we respond with fierce, deliberate steps. Each pivot is a test, each movement a clash of wills. I can feel the tension coiling between us, a power struggle disguised as dance. Her hand grips my shoulder, tighter now, as we drive through the final sequence, the air around us crackling with energy.

As the last note hangs in the air, I pull her close, our bodies flush, our breathing ragged. The tension doesn’t release—it lingers, heavy and electric, a reminder of the raw, powerful connection we’ve just forged on the dance floor.

We’re both breathing heavily, and it has nothing to do with our fast movements. I once heard that a real tango is like foreplay, and that’s exactly how it feels with Carolina.

When the music shifts to a slow jazz number, I draw her even closer, our steps turning into a gentle sway. My fingers trace the edge of her dress, and she rests her head against my chest. The party buzzes around us, but in this moment, it’s just us, moving together as one.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I croon into her ear.

Tilting her head, she looks up at me. “Oh, yes. Very much so.” The way she looks at me is everything.

She’s seen my beast, yet she’s so trusting. It’s fucking humbling, and it makes me want to do better by her. I don’t mean that I’ll stop being the ruthless asshole I was born to be,that’ll never change. But I mentally vow to always treat her like the queen I want her to be.

When she’s had her fill of dancing, I take her hand and we walk off the dance floor. I make sure to cover her body with mine so she isn’t jostled or pushed by the many bodies nearby.

We’re almost at the bar when someone walks in front of me. “Nicklas Knight, as I live and breathe. How are you doing?” he greets.

“Valentine Grant,” I reply, pulling Carolina to my side. “I’m well, thank you. Have you met Carolina Sterling, my wife to-be?”

I smother down a laugh at Carolina’s shocked expression, pleased when she quickly rearranges her face into a more suitable mask. “Pleasure to meet you, Valentine,” she sing-songs, shaking his hand.

“The pleasure is all mine, Carolina. Look, would you mind if I speak to your fiancé alone?”

She discreetly shoots me a questioning look, and I make a mental note to reward her for that later. “Go ahead,” I say, nodding at the bar. “Why don’t you go get us some drinks?”

As soon as she’s gone, Valentine pulls me into a conversation about donations for Holloway University, where he teaches criminology. While we talk, part of my mind stays tethered to Carolina. I watch her laugh, her eyes lighting up the room more than any chandelier could. Since it’s other women she’s talking with, I don’t see the need to interrupt her fun.

Then he approaches—some asshole I’ve never seen before.

The moment that sleazy grin spreads across the stranger’s face as he lays a hand on Carolina’s bare shoulder, my world narrows to a single point of white-hot rage. My conversation with the esteemed Valentine Grant fades into the background as I fixate on her—the flicker of discomfort in her eyes, the way she shifts uneasily.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, cutting him off mid-sentence without a shred of apology. The distance between me and Carolina closes with swift, determined strides. My heart drums a furious beat echoing the possessive roar in my veins.She’s mine.

I reach the interloper, take his wrist in a vise grip, and wrench it away from her skin, pushing him back with enough force that his feet stumble to regain balance. “Keep your damn hands off her,” I growl, the threat in my tone unmistakable and deadly. He tries to laugh it off, the sound brittle and high-pitched against the thrumming tension in the air.

“Easy there. I was just being sociable,” he chuckles nervously, but there’s a quiver to his voice that betrays his fear. His gaze darts around, seeking an ally or an escape.

“Wrong move,” I hiss, stepping closer until he’s forced to look up at me. “She’s not for you. Never will be.”

A collective breath seems to be held by those nearby, their faces drawn tight with anticipation of violence. The rich and powerful of New York City might thrive on scandal, but they know better than to interfere with a Knight’s wrath.

“Nicklas,” Carolina chimes in, her touch light on my arm, though I barely register it over the pounding of blood in my ears. She’s trying to soothe the beast, her presence both a balm and a blaze. “Let’s not cause a scene,” she says, her voice steady but edged with urgency.

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