Page 10 of Gift Horse

We area bonfire that has gotten way too hot. But I cannot move. I am an ice fire, frozen in place, every muscle taut, and everything inside me winding tighter, whirling.

“Come.”Mariano pulls ever so slightly at my hand.

“I don’t dance, remember?”But my muscles must bypass my brain entirely because I am following him—I would follow him anywhere,that traitorous voice inside my head whispers—without having ever told my legs to move. He leads me to an opening on the temporary dance floor set under the fairy lights and the whole world, the entire ballroom, fades.

I am clearlyabout to pass out, except there is Mariano, gently squeezing my right hand. “Hey. You’re safe with me.Siempre.”

“Okay.”The moment I say it, he somehow slides his arm under the whole length of my left arm until my hand is resting on his shoulder, and what I feel is anything butsafe.

“You are left-handed? Like Esther Fitzwilliam?”

I don’t knowhow he can tell I’m a leftie, but I can’t do anything more than nod because his hand has traveled from the small of my back to my shoulder and down again, subtly, almost imperceptibly guiding me closer to him—so close I can feel the heat emanating from him. Then he steps forward, his leg going between mine. So close I canfeelhim.

Oh,god. I can’t.

“It will be okay.”That is when I realize I have spoken aloud what was supposed to have been a thought that stayed inside my head. “I know the steps. I will guide you.”

They’rethe same kinds of things I tell Velveteen when she gets anxious, but I’m not supposed to feel this way. Not about a man who insulted me to my face. But no matter what I tell myself aboutnotwanting him, my body has disconnected from my mind and he’s leaning closer. Which is the worst. He spins me away from him, my skirt flaring open at the slit, showing even more of my legs.

“Lolly.”He draws me back to him, slides his hand up the length of my back, from my waist right to my shoulder blade again. “Lolly.” He grins—a private kind of grin, some thought making him smile.

I haveto wipe that smile off his face because it’s too much. It’s all too muchandthere are eyes on us, the electricity snapping around us palpable to everyone nearby.

We haven’t beenin motion for more than a couple of minutes, when someone’s MILF-like aunt inserts herself in the narrow space between us, using her ass like a battering ram to push me aside and break Mariano’s grip on my hand. His fingers slide from mine, their warmth lingering like a trail of glittering sparks across my palm.

“I’m sorry forinterrupting—”This she tosses over her shoulder in a tone that clearly says she’s not sorry at all. Her smile is wolfish and her gaze drops to below his beltline even as she takes up his hand. I ought to be glad she’s broken us apart and happy when she takes up the hand I was just holding. My work here is, quite possibly, done, but inexplicably I feel like pouting.

Across her shoulder,Mariano’s eyes meet mine. He holds my gaze for one beat, two—and then auntie-whoever cocks her head, grabs his other hand, and puts it just below the small of her back, right where her ass begins to curve. She leaves her hand on top of his andsqueezes. Mariano’s eyes haven’t left my face, but when I meet his gaze again, they go somehow dead. As if he’s turned off a light switch behind them. Like he never felt any of the things I was so sure we were both feeling a second ago. He keeps doing this: signaling one thing (more, Lolly; more of you) and doing another (go away; I choose another).

He turns away,not from this woman whose neckline is dripping with jewels meant to distract from her less-than-robust cleavage, butfrom me. He lets her cut in on our dance and leaves me standing there, smack in the middle of the dance floor, alone.

I peelthe orchid from my wrist and drop it, crushing it beneath the ball of my foot.

I can’t even believehow fast it all happened—how soon it’s all over. Worse: how little it all meant.

I wantto call Lish and tell her that she was right.

I was right.

We both were right.

He used me.

I used him. (Maybe.)

And I hate him.

Not because heused me but because of the way he made me feel. Smiling at me was a shitty move. Saying my name like that, ditto.

I have to get out.I can’t bear to catch glimpses of Mariano dancing with the MILF-aunt, and there’s no way I can stand to schmooze. Not after the humiliation of being left, alone, in the middle of the dance floor. I call an Uber, playing and replaying what little time we shared on the dance floor. I didn’t imagine it. The man wasn’t playacting. But still, he’s a straight-up dingleberry.

Except when I’mfinally home inside my little apartment, my arm bent at an awkward angle as I struggle to get the zipper of my dress down, I can’t help but remember how gentle Mariano’s fingers were when he slid the corsage over mine and onto my wrist. I can’t help but feel Mariano’s hand rightthere. How he traced the curve of my spine from the base of my neck to the small of my back and then pulled me against him, so I could feeleverything.And dammit, Iwantto feel everything he has. I want to know what it would feel like if he were the one drawing that zipper down…down… and slipping the sleeves from my shoulders. What his already blazing eyes would have done when he saw the lacy bra and panties I’d worn—not for him but formyself.

For myself.And so that’s what I do. I use Mariano, the memory of his firm muscles, my imagining of his bare skin slipping against mine, the heat of our friction. I use him the way he used me. I conjure him—his hands, his warmth, my name on his lips—for my own ends. To make myself feel as good as I can, on my own.

I slidemy hands up my thighs then move my left hand to my nipple and trace a circle, imagining his teeth teasing me there, making me pucker and rise. I imagine him saying my name the way he did on the dance floor. I’m so ready, it doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes before my back is arching and I’m shuddering to a halt, his name on my lips and the image of him riding me to another high, then another.

Damn.If the idea of the man can do that, what would the real deal deliver? I can feel his hand in the small of my back and his breath on my neck. I’m not usually given to two rounds of personal ping pong in a single night, but what the hell, I have energy to burn.

---