Page 221 of Broken by my Bully
I assumed he was heading for one of the cocktail tables spaced around the edges of the ballroom where we could stand and talk amidst the bustle of chatting, laughing, dancing guests.
But I got it wrong.
A new song starts up, something with intense violin chords and just a hint of a familiar tune.
“I want to apologize for earlier today,” he says, turning, his hand sliding down my arm until he’s grabbing my wrist. “I was an idiot.”
I open my mouth to confirm, indeed, what an idiot he had been, but then he bows over my hand.
“May I have this dance?”
“Wh—”
My protest is cut off as he tugs my hand, closing the distance between us. In the same fluid motion, he gets his other arm under mine, using it to guide my hand up to his shoulder. He grasps my hand in his, tightens his grip, and whirls, spinning us into a loose cluster of dancers in the middle of the ballroom.
What fucking sorcery is this?
I hold on to his shoulder, cling to his hand, and do my best to ignore the way he holds onto my waist, but it’s all too much. My face is hot, my feet are a tangled mess, and I guess this is the right time to tell him?—
“I can’t dance!” I whisper-shout.
“Then we’ll stick to a waltz.”
He turns, and it’s follow or be dragged.
These people waltz like they breathe. Natural. Easy. Graceful. I’m stomping on his feet like a Riversider killing cockroaches.
“I’ve got no idea how this shit works, Bastian!”
He frowns, drawing me a little closer so he can duck his head and whisper in my ear. “Never?”
“Never!”
People are noticing. And I guess Professor Rooke hadn’t thoughtthis through, because we’re almost dead center in the middle of the dance floor, couples surrounding us on all sides.
“Please! Just stop.” My hand grips his. “I’ve already embarrassed myself enough tonight.”
He stops dancing, and we stare at each other for a moment, my neck aching how I crane it back to make eye contact.
His gaze darts left. Right. Then right back at me.
There’s a wicked curl to the side of his mouth as he grabs me around the waist with both hands.
“Fuck ‘em,” he says.
I’m briefly airborne until my ballet slippers land on top of his shiny dress shoes. He slides a hand to the small of my back, keeping me from falling off, and takes up my other hand with his.
His thumb finds that spot. The dimple above my tailbone. The spot that makes me tingle every time he touches it.
“Ready?”
For dancing? No. For Bastian? Never.
I don’t dare breathe, balanced on Bastian’s feet in the middle of the dance floor as I am, but I manage a gritted smile.
“Good. Follow my lead.”
Like I have a choice. Like I’ve ever had a choice with him. His hands position me. His feet move mine. I’m a puppet, and everyone can see the strings.
