Shock - Marie Johnston Page 0,16
but artfully mussed. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, and the dress shirt below only highlights the expanse of his chest.
I shove the thought away. Ford’s hot. I’ve always known that. Right now, I’m going to concentrate on how excited I am to dance with someone who doesn’t make me feel like Godzilla stomping a small city.
My heels put me almost even with him, but he’s said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Samuel used to joke that he’d better start taking a calcium supplement to ward off osteoporosis or I’d surpass him in height. Then there were the jokes that he’d replace all my heels with flats. He said it enough that my height must have really bothered him, maybe not a lot at first, but it’s one of those things that got worse as we aged and his insecurities grew.
Not Ford. Like everything else, he’s unapologetically secure in his size, and while he’s taller than Samuel, he isn’t threatened I wear heels that show he’s still mortal.
I don’t threaten his masculinity and that’s a heady feeling, one I haven’t experienced since after my growth spurt in eighth grade when I suddenly towered over everyone. Middle school dances were a test of my fortitude and I wore flats all through high school to keep from standing out.
I never wore anything with more than a two-inch heel during my years with Samuel.
On the dance floor, Ford hooks my hand, spinning me into a little twirl. A laugh ripples through me, but the next second, I’m back in his arms, his hand sliding around my waist and pulling me close. I automatically drape one arm around his shoulder and grip his other hand, hoping my skin isn’t suddenly clammy.
Because this is nice. His hold is strong. Confident.
“I thought you didn’t know how to dance.” My accusation comes out breathy and there’s probably a telltale flush creeping up my chest.
My partner. He’s my partner. We are not dating, we’re only faking.
But my body refuses to listen and my mind is stuck on the “sex with clothes on” comment I foolishly made.
“I don’t care to dance. I didn’t say I don’t know how.”
I drop my tone to mimic his. “ ‘The only moves I have are horizontal.’ ”
The corners of his mouth curl and his eyes twinkle. “Mom loves to dance and”—he murmurs the next part so no one around us hears—“since my stepdad specialized in disappointing her, he made it a point never to waltz with her.”
“You can waltz?” We aren’t waltzing now. He’s doing a slow side-to-side that all too often lines up my belly with his and I’m reminded how hard his body really is. I’m struggling not to notice how close we are.
If he happens to break out in a more formal dance step, I was trained in all the basics—waltz, foxtrot, two-step. Hell, I can even line dance the Achy Breaky, anything that might come up at a fundraising function my parents attended. It was one of the skills in my arsenal that made me such a good catch for someone like Samuel.
I knew the life, I was poised, and I could smile and diffuse tense situations with semi-empty platitudes.
Ford doesn’t care about any of that. He cares that I can compress a chest to the beat of “Staying Alive” and traction splint a femur fracture.
“When the need arises, I can waltz.” He’s speaking low again, an intimate rumble that sends a shiver down my spine. “But this isn’t that type of song.”
“No. It’s junior high all the way. If the band keeps going this route, I might have to start twerking.”
His eyes flare and his pupils dilate. His hold on me tightens for a fraction of a second before he shakes himself. “That’s not something I need to see.”
The curl of disappointment takes me off guard and I snap, “I wouldn’t be doing it for you.”
He blinks at my sudden vitriol, but dammit, I hate being reminded how boring men find me.
Good breeding trumps loose morals every time, Aurelia. As if Mom saying that ever helped me through my hormone-ridden years.
Ford dips his head close to my ear, his breath wafting over my skin, pebbling my nipples and making a part of me roar to life that’s felt dead for too long. “Now, Lia, if you’re not shaking that fine ass for your fake boyfriend, you’d better not be teasing anyone else.”
My breath coalesces in my throat, smothering an indignant reply that might save me from rubbing myself all over him.