Page 79 of Playing Pretend

Piper

His words hit my heart,clenching the muscles tight.

They’re nothing but a strategic chess move, but they increase the normally ignorable base level of my yearning for him to an agonizing hum.

I want him. And the craving is far more than physical.

Every time Rome opens his mouth or makes eye contact, my pulse skips one too many beats.

The way he admires my dress. His underhanded tactics. His confident intrusion into the ladies’ bathroom. Then the breath-stealing way he caged me against the vanity.

It has taken every ounce of my composure to fake my way through it all.

I shove to my feet. “You’re cruel,” I whisper, unwilling to return to the intense vibrations that had me on the edge of hysteria.

“And you’re a fucking temptation.”

I suppress a shudder, my nipples hardening at the sinful compliment.

Rome guides me around the tables to the front of the room, my insecurities on full alert as my colleagues pause their conversations to watch us. He leads me to a small open area near the lectern, then turns into me, arms open in a slow-dance pose that doesn’t match the rapid tempo of the current song.

I shake my head. “We can’t dance like that to this.”

He inclines his head and walks away, heading for the DJ.

The two of them chat, their words undecipherable over the music as I grow more self-conscious. I was embarrassingly wet earlier. My panties soaked. It wasn’t an exaggeration when I said I worried about ruining my dress, or at least earning a damp patch that would cause utter humiliation.

But with the lowered setting of the vibrator, I’ve gained control.

I’ve grown accustomed.

I can’t go back from that.

Rome returns to me, the rock song ending mid chorus and the unmistakable intro of John Legend’s “Conversations in the Dark” taking over.

Ohhs and ahhs fill the room as Rome stops before me, reassuming the slow-dance position.

I should deny him. I should fake food poisoning and run for the bathrooms. But the hunger in his eyes becomes a tractor beam and the lyrics hit so close to home that I succumb like an idiot and step into those arms.

He takes my right hand, his other slides around my waist to the curve of my back while I palm his hip.

Everything inside me is attuned to him. Every beat of my pulse. Every thought inside my frantic mind.

My longing grows painful against the heavenly hum in my core. The barriers against the love I’ve hidden away become weak.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, gently rocking me from side to side as Mr. Legend powerfully promises not to break my heart.

“I’m concentrating.”

Rome huffs a laugh. “On shuffling your feet back and forth?”

If only.

No, my concentration is zeroed in on trying to stop the overwhelming mass of my tangled feelings from multiplying. On stopping the desire and lust from building. And worse, from ignoring the clenching beat of my heart that feels so much more painful than the squeeze of a smitten teenager.

“This isn’t an opportune time to be center of attention, Rome.”

“It’s the perfect time. You’ve never looked more beautiful.”

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