you're full of something but it ain't love

“I’m going to burn some calories,” I say, and leaning down I whisper in Christian’s ear, “You can watch me.”

“Dance with me.” 

As he gazes at me, the fire in his eyes slowly changes, evolves into something else, something darker, something hotter. Suddenly, he grabs my wrists and pulls me flush against him, pinning my hands behind my back.“You wanna dance? Let’s dance,” he growls close to my ear, and as he rolls his hips around into me, I can do nothing but follow, his hands holding mine against my backside.

Oh . . . he can move, really move. He keeps me close, not letting me go, but his hands gradually relax on mine, freeing me. My hands creep around, up his arms, feeling his bunched muscles through his jacket, up to his shoulders. He presses me against him, and I follow his moves as he slowly, sensually dances with me in time to the pulsing beat of the club music.The moment he grabs my hand and spins me first one way, then the other, I know he’s back with me. I grin. He grins.

We dance together and it’s liberating—fun. His anger forgotten, or suppressed, he whirls me around with consummate skill in our small space on the dance floor, never letting go. He makes me graceful, that’s his skill. He makes me sexy, because that’s what he is. He makes me feel loved, because  he has a wealth of love to give.Watching him now, enjoying himself . . . one could be forgiven for thinking he doesn’t have a care in the world. But I know his love is clouded with issues of over protectiveness and control, but it doesn’t make me love him any less.

I am breathless when the song morphs to another.

“Can we sit?” I gasp.“Sure.” He leads me off the dance floor.“You’ve made me rather hot and sweaty,” I whisper as we return to the table.He pulls me into his arms. “I like you hot and sweaty. Though I prefer to make you hot and sweaty in private,” he purrs, and a lascivious smile tugs at his lips.