style of the dance, holding her more closely than she was used to. Instead of a light, impersonal pressure his hand was insistent, slightly splayed along her waist, below the line of her stays, so she could feel each finger where it angled her towards him. And his other hand was contrarily so light against hers that his fingers kept shifting against the palm of her glove, only pressing in when he needed to guide her in the dance, so that her whole arm became sensitised. She was accustomed to talking while dancing, but somehow it was hard to focus on anything other than his hands.
She glanced up and met Adam’s dark grey eyes. He wasn’t smiling outright, but a shadow of amusement glinted in his eyes, the same look that she was becoming used to in her encounters with him. As if he knew what she was thinking and found her predicable but mildly entertaining. A wave of annoyance mixed with determination tingled through her.
‘Your hand,’ she said and his brows rose, the picture of innocence.
‘My hand?’
‘A bit lower, please.’
The heads of the dancers next to them turned as he burst out laughing. He slid his hand upwards slightly, very gently, and her body arched away momentarily from the contact before she could call herself to order.
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