I don’t have a chance to gasp. The moment my lips part, Sinclair’s mouth claims them. His hand, firm on my nape, holds me in place while he plunders my mouth. His tongue teases my lips before delving inside, coaxing mine out until they’re dancing, tangling, and massaging each other with ravenous hunger.
My shock passes quickly. Soon, I’m rising onto my toes to meet him, my insides turning to mush as I wrap my arms around his neck, moaning when he pulls his lips away and begins tracing a ruthless path over my jaw and down my throat.
Already breathless, invigorated, and lost to the world, I nibble his earlobe as his tongue dips into my clavicle. He purrs, and a delicious wave of heat washes over me. My body is flush against his, and I’ve forgotten the other dancers. I press myself closer, trying not to squirm, desperate for relief from my aching breasts and the pulsing between my legs, but too shy to seek it directly.
Luckily, Sinclair doesn’t need to be told. He seems to sense my need effortlessly, and he’s not shy about his own desires. He grips my hips, holding them firmly against his, letting me feel his hardness. He gently undulates our bodies, rubbing me in all the right places under the pretense of following the dance steps.
This isn’t like our other kisses. There are no cameras, no eager onlookers. A few wolves might be peeking, but everyone is preoccupied with their partners. If I could think clearly, I might wonder why Sinclair is being so romantic without an audience, but that’s beside the point—because clear thinking is impossible.
Time stops. The world ceases to matter except this moment between us—two people who couldn’t be more different. Sinclair’s lips are soft as silk, but his affection is rough and merciless, as if he’s trying to sear the feel of his kiss into my bones. I know he’s setting me up for heartbreak—because I won’t forget. I’ll never kiss anyone again without remembering this and feeling infinitely disappointed.
It’s escalating quickly, but I can’t stop it. Luckily, Sinclair does, pulling back a moment later and looking down at me with a fiery gaze that leaves me tingling. It’s a good thing he has more restraint than I do; I was about to rip off both our clothes despite the cold. I’ve never lost control like that. Though part of me worries about the power he holds over me, it’s impossible to worry too much when I’m with him. He makes me feel astonishingly safe—and frighteningly so, when I finally have time to think.
“Why did you do that?” I gasp, dazed.
“Why?” He offers a wolfish grin. “Didn’t you like it?”
My cheeks flush. “Yes, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?” Sinclair asks, missing the point entirely. Before I can answer, he kisses me again, stealing my thoughts. This time, I pull away, and I’m not intimidated by his rumble of displeasure—at least, I try not to be. In reality, his growl makes my knees weak. Why do I suddenly want to throw myself at his feet?
“Dominic, I don’t think this is a good idea,” I manage, though a little voice inside protests.
He arches a skeptical brow, massaging my nape and studying my face intently. “You don’t want me to kiss you?”
“I didn’t say that,” I answer huskily. Lying is impossible; I can only skirt the truth.
“So you do want me to kiss you?” He smirks, pulling me closer.
With an exasperated huff, I glare at him. “Look, I’m simply not the casual type.”
The amusement drains from his face. “And you think I am?”
I want to scoff. He’s rich and handsome enough to have any woman he wants, and the tabloids never report him with the same woman twice. He’s not exactly a playboy—I know it’s unfair to label him that, he’s a family man—but commitment to children is different from commitment to a woman. Many men remain rogues even after becoming fathers.
Instead, I say, “I think I’m your human surrogate. You’ve said a dozen times that your mate will come along, and I’ll step down as Luna. We have no future, which makes ‘casual’ our only option.”
“Would you want something more—a relationship—if it were possible?” The gears are visibly turning in his head. Why would he ask? Is he taunting me? He doesn’t seem humorous or playful, but I can’t fathom why else he’d do this.
“It isn’t possible, so why ask?” I’m increasingly annoyed.
“Because it is,” Sinclair replies, with enough edge to make me rethink a sassy retort.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I snap. I mean it. I couldn’t handle a man like Sinclair. He’d chew me up and spit me out—and I wouldn’t survive it, because of how attracted I am to him. The heat between us is more than physical; I’m becoming more emotionally invested, and I can’t take any more. A relationship with Sinclair would be self-destructive, especially after Mike.
“But you do want me to kiss you?” His cocky grin hides a dark, unreadable countenance.
“I never said that,” I remind him.
“Not verbally,” Sinclair agrees. “Your body, however…” He trails off, caressing my ribs, dangerously close to my breast. I’m plastered against him, on fire, and it takes all my willpower not to press my nipple into his hand.
“You’re impossible,” I grumble, trying not to lash out. The longer this flirtation continues, the more I feel like a helpless rabbit. It isn’t fair.
Sinclair sighs, relaxing his hold and running a hand through his hair. “Ella, there’s something I should warn you about—”
I shake my head, pulling away. I don’t want a warning; I just want to catch my breath, which is impossible with Sinclair. “I’m going to find a restroom,” I announce.
“Ella—”
“The baby’s pressing on my bladder,” I declare stubbornly. He’ll accommodate the pup. He lets me go, and I storm off, hoping to find decent facilities.