SEDUCED BY THE STRANGER (Dirty Little Secrets, #1) by Alex Elliott Page B

slowly to the music, and yes, I imagine that his mouth is on me, drinking between my legs, driving me wild. Best of all, in my fantasy—he doesn’t care who my family is as he forces my legs wider, imprisoning me under him until I forget everything except how insane he makes me feel.
    My dress—a tiny scrap of shiny white material—rises up my thighs, the hem tickling my skin. Thank God there are people all around and steamy clouds float up from the floor or the slice of man cake would be getting a shot of how little I’m wearing. And just as I think that thought, the crowds part, and guess who gets an eyeful of me and my dirty dance routine? My admirer leans over, setting his glass down, and I get that his eyes have just gotten a panoramic view of me and the strip of lace I call my thong.
    He breaks eye contact. He’s saying something to the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering is he leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off of the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone and easy to spot as he walks from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that is better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind warping.
    A woman shouts, “Excuse me.”
    Shit, I’m frozen, and have to decide, either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor, getting knocked and bashed, or exit. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning my feet direct me toward him. “Okay, wait,” I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.
    “You’re quite a dancer,” he says in a deep voice, shaped by a slight Southern accent, and towering like a redwood right in front of me.
    For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face him. I say, “Thanks...” and stare in stunned silence.
    What.
    The.
    Fuck!
    His gaze pulls the thoughts right out of my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour me. He holds off smiling, looking down at me, and slightly cocks his head. Instantly, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark messy hair that frames his chiseled and yes, stunning face. All at once, it’s like the weekend of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.
    “Hey.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “You all right?”
    His touch isn’t static. His fingers on my arm send a racing jolt that hits me like a rocket, tingling along my skin, then diving deep. A spark of fiery pleasure implodes in my belly. “Uh...It’s kinda crowded. I’m just hot,” I think I say.
    I’m beyond charred standing next to him and now with his fingers on my skin, it’s all I can do to stay upright.
    “Come talk to me. Over there.” He tugs on my arm, jutting his chin to some invisible place, not that I break eye contact to see where he means.
    “Okay. Sure.” I hope I’m speaking and the mute button isn’t pressed. Confirmation.
    He leads me to an alcove, down from the dance floor, and one I didn’t know existed. Not that I’ve been to this club before. Thunderstruck, I follow along, his hand on my arm and a tiny voice inside my head, asks the question. Should I be afraid? We’re alone and even though he’s wearing an expensive suit, he has the body of someone who clearly doesn’t sit around all day, crunching numbers.
    “Why are you dancing alone?” He stares down at me, thoughtfully assessing as he waits for me to say something, I imagine.
    Inside the narrow hall, I’m panting and the blood is pounding in my ears. Should I admit that I’m floored that a man who is taller than