Page 7 of Venus
I nod, playing along. “Alright. Can I at least dance with you?”
She considers. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no. Just… walks away with a drink in each hand.
I blink.
She disappears into the crowd with the drinks, and I feel like someone just pulled the rug out from under me.
She’s dancing now. Not wildly, and not for attention. Just a slow, deliberate rhythm that dares me to follow. Her hips sway, her hair brushes against her back, and every once in a while, she looks over her shoulder.
And catches me watching.
Again.
And again.
Each time she meets my eyes, I feel that heat in my chest spread—like fire licking up my ribs. She’s doing it on purpose. She wants me to come to her.
Or she’s playing with me.
Either way, I’m toast.
When I finally move, I don’t walk. I stalk. Not aggressive. Just… pulled. Like gravity shifted and now she’s the center and I’m completely caught in her orbit.
I reach her just as she spins toward the jukebox. We’re tucked behind a booth, half in shadow. The air back here smells like sweat and perfume and spilled rum.
I lean in just close enough to speak. “What’s your name?”
She gives me that maddening, unreadable smile again and traces a slow figure-eight with her hips. She doesn’t answer. Just keeps dancing.
I hold back, not wanting to come on too strong. She’s calling the shots, and I’m not stupid enough to miss that. It’s hot, and I’m into it.
So I step back. Shimmy a little. Invite her in.
She laughs, just a little, and takes the bait.
We dance.
And it’s—God, it’s something else.
Her fingers brush my arm as she spins. Her hips sync with mine like we’ve done this before in another life. She’s sweating a little. I’m sweating a lot. Her laughter catches in my shirt. My hands drift to her waist, careful, asking for permission with touch alone.
She lets me. Moves deeper into my touch. Four songs pass, and I’m breathless. Not from the dancing, but from her.
She tugs me toward the bar again and plops down on a stool like she owns it. I stand behind her, resting one hand on the bar, the other still tingling from where it held her waist.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask again.
She finally nods. “Just one.”
I order a beer. She gets a vodka lemonade.
“You’re a firefighter, right?” she asks, eyeing the logo on my hat.
“Yeah, you remembered,” I confirm gleefully. “Hence the Vulcan thing. What about you? What do you do when you’re not dancing circles around me on the dance floor?”
“Labor and delivery nurse.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
