I meet her eyes, surprised, and she smirks. I step my leg forward, in between hers, sinking my grip low on her waist, splaying across her hips. For a second, I think she’s going to call my bluff and put space between us.

Instead, her navy irises darken with interest and her body slithers against me from hip to shoulder. Her dress swings loosely between my fingers, and I know if I don’t pull back, I’m going to end up lifting it and carrying her off to the bathroom.

Honestly, maybe I should.

The song changes and I spin her out once, pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. She laughs, but it’s as breathless as I feel.

You’re playing with fire, Riggs. Good.

The next song is slow, and Old Cameron would walk her back to the bar. To our friends and our drinks. Our sanity.

Instead, we’re magnets. Without even deciding to, I flick my wrist, spinning her back toward me, and she slips into my arms. Her fingers don’t waste any time finding my hair, sending sparks flickering across my skin. I don’t even bother with her waist, my arms circling her so completely so that I can feel every intake of her breath press against my own. This isn’t anything like the flea market. That was sweet and easy. This is sensual and heady.

We barely rock, barely spin, barely notice anything outside of ourselves. I know more people are dancing; I can feel the curious stares.

But I don’t give a single fuck about anything but her.

I bend my neck, curling over the place where her head rests in the space between my neck and my shoulder, and tighten my hold. I’ve never felt anything so perfect as this. Not even before.

“Cameron?” I feel her whisper against my skin.

I raise my head so I can see her face. Her cheeks are flushed; her eyes are alight with a quiet hunger, and I swallow, her fingers driving me mad as they stroke the skin of my neck.

“Ask me if I want to go upstairs.”

My heart races, a heavy thudding in my chest, almost painful. I need a minute. To think, to decide. She raises up on her tiptoes and presses a soft, closed-mouth kiss to my lips. I used to think I was calling the shots when we were kids. But I’m starting to see that it’s been her all along. She’s always been the brave one.

“I want to.” This whispered confession feels like it’s being ripped directly from my chest. “So much. But I—”

Her eyes slip shut, but not before I see the flash of hurt.