"Ryzard followed the man’s gaze and his entire being crackled to
attention.
Well beyond the pool’s light, in a corner mostly blocked by a buffet
table and ice sculpture, a woman undulated like a cobra, utterly
fascinating in her hypnotic movements timed perfectly with the music.
Her splayed hands slid down her body with sexy knowledge, her hips
popped in time to the beat, and her feet kick-stepped into motion.
She twirled. The motion lifted her brassy curls like a skirt before she
planted her feet wide and swayed her weight between them. The flex of
her spine gave way to a roll of her hips, and she was back into motion
again.
Setting down his drink, Ryzard beelined toward her. He couldn’t tell if
the woman had a partner, but it didn’t matter. He was cutting in.
She was alone, lifting her arms to gather her hair, eyes closed as she
felt the music as much as heard it. She arched and stretched—
He caught her around the waist and used the shocked press of her hands
at his shoulders to push her into accepting his lead, stepping into her
space, then retreating, bringing her with him. As he moved her into a
side step, she recovered, matching his move while her gaze pinned to
his.
He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. The light was too low, her
feathery mask shadowing her gaze into twin glinting lights, but he
reacted to the fixation in them. She was deciding whether to accept
him.
A rush of excitement for the challenge ran through him. After a few
more quick steps, he swung her into half pivots, catching each of her
wrists in turn, one bare, one clad in silk, enjoying the flash of her
bare knee through the slit of her skirt.
How had she been overlooked by every man here? She was exquisite.
Lifting her hand over her head, he spun her around then clasped her
shoulder blades into his chest. Her buttocks—fine, firm, round globes
as if heaven had sent him a valentine—pressed into his lap. Bending her
before him, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled, then followed
her push to straighten and matched the sway of her hips with his own.
Tiffany’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would escape her chest.
One second she’d been slightly drunk, lost in the joy of letting the
salsa rhythm control her muscles. Now a stranger was doing it. And
doing it well. He pulled her around into a waltz stance that he quickly
shifted so they grazed each other’s sides, left, right, left.
She kicked each time, surprised how easily the movements came back to
her. It had been years, but this man knew what he was doing, sliding
her slowly behind his back, then catching her hand on the other side.
He pushed her to back up a step, bringing one of her arms behind his
head, the other behind her own. A few backward steps and they were
connected by only one hand, arms outstretched, then he spun her back
into him, catching her into his chest.
He stopped.
The conga beat pulsed through her as he ran his hands down her sides.
Her own flew to cover his knuckles, but she didn’t stop him. It felt
too amazing. His fingertips grazed the sides of her breasts, flexed
into the taut muscles of her waist and clasped her hips to push them in
a hula circle that he followed with his own, his crotch pressed tight
to her buttocks.
Sensual pleasure electrified her. No one touched her anymore. After
being a genderless automaton for so long, she was a woman again, alive,
capable of captivating and enticing a man. She nudged her hips into his
and flashed a cheeky glance back at him."