Franny gave her a nudge, then out of the corner of her mouth said, ‘But have you heard bedsprings creaking?’
Caitlyn smacked her hard on the upper arm. ‘We met a week ago.’
Franny shook her head as if that was no kind of answer, which in Frannyland it wasn’t.
Caitlyn, on the other hand, wasn’t about to jump into bed with some random guy just because he gave her that sweet rush that came from meeting someone new. That had never been her bag. For her, the attraction was all about the delicious slow burn at the beginning of a relationship. The shy glances, and first touches and stolen kisses, and that build of delicious tension ’til they could no longer keep their hands off one another—what a thrill! So much better than the reality that always came later. So Cutey Patootey was going to have to wait.
He glanced back at the girls and grinned; big, brawny, honestly a little less erudite than she might have liked. But Franny was right; with the dimples and spiky blond hair he was ridiculously cute.
With a self-satisfied smile, Caitlyn motioned to Franny she was about to make a beeline for the ladies’ room for a freshen up. She sucked in her stomach and ducked and weaved her way through the heaving Saturday night club crowd.
Once through she let out her stomach and craned her neck to see which direction the rest rooms had gone, when she turned and smacked face first into a wall.
At least it felt like a wall. That was until she reached out and grabbed it and discovered it was warm, and slightly yielding, and wearing a suit.
She tried to push off it only to find the crowd pressing at her back.
‘Whoa,’ she said, half laughing, half hanging on for dear life as she righted herself using the wall as her guide.
And then she looked up. And up. And up.
Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression. Hello Handsome.
She stood staring into those dark eyes for a long time. Seconds? Minutes?
‘So sorry,’ she finally said, as breathless as though she’d had the air knocked from her lungs.
Then just when she decided he wasn’t going to answer her back, a deep dark velvet voice said, ‘Whatever for?’
She swallowed. Tried to anyway. Turned out her mouth had dried up.
Shaking her fringe from her eyes and feigning a confidence that was feeling a tad shaky right about then, she looked right into his eyes, and said, ‘I don’t make a habit of throwing myself into the arms of passing strangers.’
‘Yet you’re so good at it.’
She laughed, and her breasts pressed against him. His hard warm chest. She felt a weakening at the backs of her knees. She curled her hands tighter around his lapels.
She wished she could see his eyes better. To see if he was smiling too. The club wasn’t exactly dark, but he somehow seemed to swallow the light around him.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘so it’s a move. Not an original one. A classic, really. And I’m sticking by it.’
‘Mmm. There’s a reason why classics become classics,’ he drawled, his rich velvety voice making her shoulders roll as though someone were running a slow finger right down her spine.
‘Why’s that?’
‘They work.’
She could feel the beat of the music in her stomach. Or perhaps it was her pulse, thumping hard and fast through her centre. Unless it was his pulse. His thumping. They were pressed close enough for it to be possible.
‘Caitlyn March,’ she said, figuring it impolite to be quite so plastered against the man and not at least introduce herself. She unpeeled a hand to shake his.
‘Dax Bainbridge.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
The house lights flashed at that moment—on off on off—in time with an eighties dance hit and she finally saw his face. Gorgeous didn’t even begin to cut it. It was the kind of face she’d have immediately looked away from if caught staring for fear of public drooling.
And then he smiled.
It wasn’t a grin by any stretch of the imagination. But the serious cheek creased in the kind of way that set a girl’s heart to racing, and the dark eyes gleamed, but it was plenty enough to make Caitlyn feel as if she’d just been clubbed over the back of the head.
Her brain became a fog. She could see the wave and sway of dancing clubbers out of the corner of her eye, and it felt as though they were moving in slow motion. The steady thump of the music pulsed in her stomach. Lower. Boom, boom, boom.
Were the two of them swaying in time with the music now? If not, it felt as if they sure as heck should be.
‘Are you a dancer?’ she asked. But when she felt him take a breath to answer, she got in first. ‘I meant do you get your dance moves on at places like this? Not professionally, of course. I didn’t mean you look like a ballerina or anything. And I’m not sure it would be physically possible to achieve head-spins in that suit.’
No response, not that she blamed him. Though his chest rumbled deliciously against hers. Was he laughing? God, she was literally having to stop herself from breathing the guy in he smelled so delicious, and he was laughing.
She knew she ought to just let him be, to back away slowly and go...wherever it was she’d been planning to go when she stumbled upon him. Where was that again? But he smelled so good, felt so solid, gave her such an array of the most delicious goose bumps, she couldn’t.
Literally.
She realised then that his arms were around her. Not inappropriately in any way, shape or form. The song playing was the kind that always had half the nightclub trying to squeeze onto a dance floor three sizes too small and he was merely keeping her from smacking into any other nightclubbers. Or walls for that matter. It was a gentlemanly thing.
She was bumped, jostled, nudged closer. His arms tightened. The crowd moved away. His arm did not. And suddenly it didn’t feel so gentlemanly after all.
He shifted his weight. Or maybe she’d shifted hers. Either way when the shifting stopped they were closer again. Her thighs were introduced to the hardness of his. His belt buckle got to know the dent of her belly button. Her blood rushed so hard and fast through her, her head had begun to spin.
She felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her and she was balancing on the edge. Like if the guy moved the wrong way—or more specifically the right way—she might leap into his arms, wrap her legs around him and never let go. He was so strong, so warm, he had her wondering if there was a back alley to the place. A hard, private wall up against which he and she could—
And then she remembered the guy at the bar. The guy with whom she was on a date. Whatshisname? Seriously, what was his name?
Honestly, in the end, it was less that than the fact that her toes had begun to go numb
