Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,21

arms move first, lifting sensuously, flowing like a lazy wave from one hand to the other and taking my shoulders with them. I hold my hips still, concentrating all movement above my chest. Making him wait for it.

The way he stares up at me… Sweet hell, it says everything he doesn’t. Grave and serious, his blue eyes devour my body with naked interest, as if I’m beautiful, as if he desperately wants to touch me, grab me, fuck me.

Buttoned up and crisply starched, his suit molds to the muscled form of his body, as if challenging me to stare. To want. To conjure images of my hands stripping every immaculate layer.

The volume grows louder, and I engage my abdominal wall, undulating the muscles in a rippling shiver. His thick shoulders lift with an intake of air, a breath he holds for several counts before releasing, relaxing, and inhaling again.

I affect him—my body, my art, my command of both. It gives me a sense of power over him. Not that I intend to see him again, but for one night, in an empty restaurant, it’s invigorating.

When the song reaches a staccato rhythm, I punctuate the beats with vertical hip drops, outward hip hits, shoulder accents, and ribcage lifts. The fluid motion of my body aligns with the instruments, pulling me into a state of hypnosis that carries me across the platform, floating on a column of light and curving my lips from corner to corner.

I smile because I appreciate the sensual gestures, the mellifluous lines and bends of my frame. I smile because as Trace watches me, his eyes glow at max voltage, electrocuting the short distance between us.

Leaning toward him, I shimmy what little I have on my chest and meet his gaze. Bending deeper, I hang my head and roll my shoulders in a dance of their own, caught in the music, held by the moment.

Upside down, my hair sweeps the floor, arms hanging beside my face as my deltoids, lats, and traps contract and bounce in a textured choreography of muscle.

Slowly, I rise, raising my arms above my head and rolling my hips in infinity loops. As I lower my hands alongside my face, I writhe my fingers in sinuous, seductive waves, tilting my head, gyrating my pelvis, and making his jaw dip lower, lower…

He snaps his mouth shut, his chest rising and the rims of his eyes tightening with tension.

I know what he sees. I’ve memorized my reflection in the mirror as I sway and rock through the serpentine maneuvers. The shimmies, shivers, and flexibility of my hips. The female form moving in a way that simulates flexibility, promiscuity, and sexual energy. I’m an actress on a stage, eliciting emotion and feeding off the reactions. Or in this case, one reaction.

I put an extra kick in my hip tilts and laugh as his jaw twitches toward a smile. “You like that?”

His face instantly cements back into stone, his eyes thunderous.

The song winds to a close, and I slow my movements, lowering my arms and gazing to the side and at the floor until silence blankets the room. Then I bend in a customary bow and blow him a kiss as I straighten.

He reaches for the knot of his tie and drops his hand. “Turn around.”

“Why?”

His lips clamp together, darkening his expression, as if I committed blasphemy by questioning him.

Our silent standoff doesn’t last long. I’m too curious to not turn around, and when I do, my breath hitches. “Whoa.”

Twenty, thirty…maybe fifty people gather on the other side of the glass wall. Most are men, but women congregate, too. And employees. Others linger near the tables farther back, eyes pointed in my direction, watching.

I wave at the crowd and smile. “Why are they—?”

“You’re good, Danni.” His timbre comes from somewhere near the bar behind me.

The light beneath my feet blinks off, veiling me in shadows and signaling the audience to disperse.

“You really think I’m good, huh?” I hop off the stage and slip my feet into the flip-flops.

“Not just good. You’re captivating.” Trace strides toward me and grabs my shirt from the floor.

I reach for his hand, but he yanks it back and proceeds to guide the shirt over my head. The gesture stutters my breath, and when my face emerges through the neck hole, I stare at him with wide eyes.

Focused on his task, he lifts my arm, then the other, sliding each of my hands slowly, gently, through the sleeves. Letting him do this feels so