The beat was slow, and Mama B’s voice was low and velvety.

Maggie looked up and searched those gray eyes for a hint at what he was thinking. She found out when he leaned down to nuzzle at her neck. Her heartbeat thrummed frantically against her ribs when his teeth dragged over her skin.

That jumpy, empty throb was back at her core, reminding her that she’d gone so long without allowing someone inside. Her breasts ached for his touch. Those strong, rough hands sliding over heated skin. Would he take his time? Would he race her for release? Would he whisper all the words she longed to hear?

She had fantasies about getting on her knees in front of him and begging. Here. Separated from the crowd only by shadows.

“Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I might not be able to hang on to my civility,” he said in a harsh whisper. He gave her hips a swift pull, and she felt his erection against her stomach. He was hard. God. So damn hard against her. That thick length behind his zipper.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“That’s better,” he said, his lips coasting over her neck, her jaw. Shifting, he moved one hand to her back, keeping her hips pressed against him. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice husky as his thumb slipped under her shirt and stroked over her stomach.

She shivered. “Someone might see.” She heard the thrill in her own voice.

His grin was deadly, and she knew he’d heard it, too.

“Just keep dancing, darlin’,” he promised.

The sigh that left her lips when he flattened his palm against her ribs was very nearly a moan. His thumb brushed purposefully against the band of her bra.

Her body wanted to freeze in place and memorize the feel of his hand on her. But he kept them both swaying at half speed.

“I’ve been spending an awful lot of time thinking about how it would feel to get my hands on you, Maggie.”

“It might have crossed my mind once or twice, too,” she whispered.

“I’m gonna touch you now.”

Words deserted her as anticipation, sharp as razor blades, flooded her system. Shredding any logic. The second she nodded, that big, warm palm of his slid higher to cup her breast. As her nipple pebbled against the friction, she felt his erection pulse once against her.

The bra, so impractical and not at all supportive, was suddenly her new best friend when his thumb brushed against the thin satin that dipped low over the curve.

“Ahh, Maggie,” he breathed against her and squeezed.

Her knees buckled. She wanted to be embarrassed. She was thirty-four years old. This was not her first time running the bases. Enough men had made it to second base that her breasts should have been used to the attention.

But Sy’s attention was something else entirely.