Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,26

that are deeper, hotter, better than sex.

Is this a kink of his? Watching a woman undulate her hips without touching her? Except he is touching, his hand slipping from my neck, down my shoulder blade, and snaking around my ribs to clutch my waist. It feels so good to be in strong, masculine arms I arch back against him and sway my hips.

Instead of pulling away, he rocks with me—a slow, instinctual grind that vacillates to the rhythm of our breaths. It’s unexpected, drugging, and insane. But I sink into the groove, glorying in the feel of his powerful frame cradling my backside.

He runs the heel of his free hand across my collarbones, banding my chest with his forearm and hugging me against him. “I fucking love your body.”

“But not my messy personality?” My head falls back on his shoulder.

“Exactly.”

My stomach hardens. “What a cruel thing to say.”

“You don’t look offended.” He touches his lips to my neck and rolls his hips against me.

The steely length of his erection prods and rubs, leaving little to the imagination. Hard and thick, the man is hung.

But I’m stuck on his words. He’s interested in my body, in watching me move, but nothing else? He’s embracing me, roaming his hands over my curves while avoiding my breasts and everywhere below my waist. If another man touched me like this with his arousal pressing against me, I’d know his intent. But Trace has made it clear he doesn’t want me, at least not in a tumble-between-the-sheets way.

So why is he holding me? His desire is evident in the heave of his breaths and the swell of his cock. I want to demand an explanation. But I’m afraid he’ll push me away, and dammit, I’m not ready for cold isolation to slip back in. It’s been too long since I’ve been held by a powerful, sexy man.

Not only that, he knows how to move. We’re not actually dancing, but there’s freedom and natural rhythm in the sway of his hips, both of which are deadly temptations for my music-loving soul.

“Do you dance?” I ask.

“When the need arises.”

“Ballroom dancing at fancy parties?”

“Correct.” He nips at my neck.

“Dance with me. I want to see your moves.”

“No.” His teeth press against my skin.

I rest my hands on his hips behind me, following the narrow lines of his suit and relishing the contours and indentations of taut muscle beneath the fabric. “You only want to watch?”

“That’s right.” He drags his nose along my throat.

“After you watch me dance, then what?”

“Then nothing.” The hand beneath my breast shifts upward, dangerously close to cupping me.

“I feel your erection, Trace. What would you do if I grabbed it?”

“Try it and find out.”

His voice is raspy and thick, but I hear the threat sharpening the syllables. If I grope him, this little dance ends. I might be bold enough to wrap my hand around his cock, but the rejection would sting.

He seems content to just stand here, rocking and molding his hands to the bends and dips of my body. It’s both confusing and comforting. If he were simply fondling me like Mark had done last night, I would know how to respond. But this is different. His lips caress my neck adoringly, erotically, luring me into a trance that messes with my head.

If I had any self-control, I’d end this meeting and go home. But I crave his small doses of affection, hunger to kiss him, and ache to strip out of my itchy clothes and melt beneath his touch, his mouth, his thrusts. Sex with him would be turbulent, pyretic, and wholly satisfying.

My pulse hammers at the thought of fighting with him, wrestling and fucking in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs. Maybe he’s right. I do enjoy a challenging asshole, and I’m compelled to explore the enigma of this infuriating man.

But he thinks I’m messy. The more I roll that around in my mind, the more I want to prove him wrong. In fact, I’m starting to think he’s intentionally trying to get under my skin.

Twisting in his arms, I lift on tiptoes and search his glacial gaze. “You’re up to something.”

“I’m not.” His tone is stringent, unmoved.

“You are. You’re gambling with my emotions. Taking bets on my libido.”

“Are you making casino jokes now?” He huffs a laugh—a single humorless pulse of sound.

His impassive expression further enrages me, and I shove at his chest. He steps back, but I stay with him, pushing until he bumps into the window behind him.

“You