her instantly, the delicate column of her neck catching his attention because sheâd swept her hair up.
He wanted to pull every last pin out of it and gather it in his hand. Bury his face in it and inhale the scent of her skin.
Like he had last night.
Nartan took a sip of the whisky instead. He nursed the beverage, using it as an anchor to remain at the bar. He confined himself to women who made the first move because it removed the need for him to comfort them when they realized he wasnât there for the long haul. He didnât like to mask who he was during sex. When he took home a woman who had stepped up to him, she didnât have any right to expect seduction.
Celeste needed to be seduced. He felt that truth all the way to his bones.
But all he felt like doing was running her to ground. It was a hard, sharp impulse, just like the bite of the whisky.
The DJ fired up the music. Tarak swept his bride around the large dance floor with a confidence that earned him smoldering looks from the women in the room.
Shamus Donovan, Sabraâs father, finally cut in. The white-haired man was still barrel-chested and dressed in a Navy dress uniform. Tarak offered him his hand, but the older man shook his fist at his new son-in-law in a warning that sent a ripple of amusement through the guests.
The father-daughter dance unleashed a soft round of applause as Shamus glowed with pride while guiding his daughter around the floor. The moment the music changed, employees of Nektosha eagerly flooded the floor to join their boss and make sure they were noticed.
Nartan chuckled and drew another sip from his whisky.
Tarak didnât give a damn about who had laid out the money to fly up to his wedding reception. In fact, the reason it was being held in Alaska was because Tarak didnât care for schmoozers. His employees were rated on their performance in the workplace.
Shamus swept Celeste into a dance but abandoned her when the tempo changed. Adeleâs husky voice sang out âSet Fire to the Rain,â sending most of the brownnosing crowd toward their chairs. Tarak held his hands up in surrender when Sabra grabbed the front of her long gown and stepped to the beat. She turned around and Celeste joined her.
Nartanâs whisky ended up forgotten in his hand.
He was fixated on Celeste. She moved with a sensuality that struck him like a blow to the solar plexus. Every motion was an expression of hunger.
Sexual hunger.
She dominated the floor, daring any man in the room to try matching her. It was raw and savage. One of Tarakâs younger VPs slid up to her, and she tossed her head back. The poor fool didnât know he was already defeated. Celesteâs body language was already dismissing him as she slid around him and rejoined the girlsâ group that had formed around Sabra.
Her ignored dance partner didnât give up. He kept dancing, moving around the group of women until one of them broke off with him.
Celeste didnât give him a second glance.
But she did catch Nartan watching her. She arched and turned, the music still pulsing through her body as her motions changed. It was almost indiscernible, the thrust of her hips and the arch of her back, as she pushed her breasts out.
He noticed.
Would have sworn he felt it yanking him toward her.
Daring him to try his hand at winning her.
Desire surged past the barrier he kept his sexual encounters pinned behind. He set the whisky down, uninterested in dulling his wits.
No, what he wanted was a different sort of mind-numbing experience. He wanted his senses sharp when he connected with her, wanted to notice every last detail of their collision. It went deeper than desire, bordering on craving. That gave him a moment of pause, a red flag going up. He liked having his partners sealed behind a wall of friendly indifference that could be used to shut them out of his thoughts when he wasnât in the mood for them.
But his craving for Celeste
He wanted to pull every last pin out of it and gather it in his hand. Bury his face in it and inhale the scent of her skin.
Like he had last night.
Nartan took a sip of the whisky instead. He nursed the beverage, using it as an anchor to remain at the bar. He confined himself to women who made the first move because it removed the need for him to comfort them when they realized he wasnât there for the long haul. He didnât like to mask who he was during sex. When he took home a woman who had stepped up to him, she didnât have any right to expect seduction.
Celeste needed to be seduced. He felt that truth all the way to his bones.
But all he felt like doing was running her to ground. It was a hard, sharp impulse, just like the bite of the whisky.
The DJ fired up the music. Tarak swept his bride around the large dance floor with a confidence that earned him smoldering looks from the women in the room.
Shamus Donovan, Sabraâs father, finally cut in. The white-haired man was still barrel-chested and dressed in a Navy dress uniform. Tarak offered him his hand, but the older man shook his fist at his new son-in-law in a warning that sent a ripple of amusement through the guests.
The father-daughter dance unleashed a soft round of applause as Shamus glowed with pride while guiding his daughter around the floor. The moment the music changed, employees of Nektosha eagerly flooded the floor to join their boss and make sure they were noticed.
Nartan chuckled and drew another sip from his whisky.
Tarak didnât give a damn about who had laid out the money to fly up to his wedding reception. In fact, the reason it was being held in Alaska was because Tarak didnât care for schmoozers. His employees were rated on their performance in the workplace.
Shamus swept Celeste into a dance but abandoned her when the tempo changed. Adeleâs husky voice sang out âSet Fire to the Rain,â sending most of the brownnosing crowd toward their chairs. Tarak held his hands up in surrender when Sabra grabbed the front of her long gown and stepped to the beat. She turned around and Celeste joined her.
Nartanâs whisky ended up forgotten in his hand.
He was fixated on Celeste. She moved with a sensuality that struck him like a blow to the solar plexus. Every motion was an expression of hunger.
Sexual hunger.
She dominated the floor, daring any man in the room to try matching her. It was raw and savage. One of Tarakâs younger VPs slid up to her, and she tossed her head back. The poor fool didnât know he was already defeated. Celesteâs body language was already dismissing him as she slid around him and rejoined the girlsâ group that had formed around Sabra.
Her ignored dance partner didnât give up. He kept dancing, moving around the group of women until one of them broke off with him.
Celeste didnât give him a second glance.
But she did catch Nartan watching her. She arched and turned, the music still pulsing through her body as her motions changed. It was almost indiscernible, the thrust of her hips and the arch of her back, as she pushed her breasts out.
He noticed.
Would have sworn he felt it yanking him toward her.
Daring him to try his hand at winning her.
Desire surged past the barrier he kept his sexual encounters pinned behind. He set the whisky down, uninterested in dulling his wits.
No, what he wanted was a different sort of mind-numbing experience. He wanted his senses sharp when he connected with her, wanted to notice every last detail of their collision. It went deeper than desire, bordering on craving. That gave him a moment of pause, a red flag going up. He liked having his partners sealed behind a wall of friendly indifference that could be used to shut them out of his thoughts when he wasnât in the mood for them.
But his craving for Celeste
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