Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
She’s dancing. Cheering. Doing some kind of insanely sexy combination of the two. Her body moves smoothly, athletically to the beat. It’s a song I recognize from one of my own workout playlists. Armani White.
Total pump-up song.
Damn is she crushing it. She dances hard, throwing up her arms, swinging her hips like she’s in front of a stadium of 60,000 screaming football fans. Her expression is focused, but her lips are pursed in a small, satisfied smile.
I almost blackout when she pops her ass, then drops into a burpee-type thing before shoving that sweet little ass back in the air. She shakes it, making her ass cheeks vibrate. The joy on her face as she looks at herself in the mirror is . . . everything.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
Blame it on the beer. The day’s feel-good vibes. The excellent DJ Coop and Goldie hired.
Whatever the case, I suddenly can’t stay still.
I don’t know what I’m doing until my hand is on the doorknob and I’m pushing into the gym. The music is loud.
My heartbeat is louder.
Maren’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. She takes in my tux and smiles, eyes and everything, and I feel it like a kick to the chest.
“Hello, handsome!” she shouts over the Lady Gaga song that comes on. “How was it?”
Go. To. Bed.
Instead I shout back, “Good. Great, actually.” I nod at her body like an idiot. “Your routine is . . . insane.”
She tilts her head, motioning to the front of the room. “Come. I’ll teach you.”
“Who says I need to be taught?”
Her brown eyes flash. “Mr. One Word Answers Death Stare can dance?”
I’m just drunk enough to say, without a trace of irony, “Yes.”
She bursts out laughing. The shit in my chest swells. So does my dick.
“Show me.”
“It’s late.”
“You’re really gonna leave me hanging?” Putting a hand on her hip, she rolls her eyes. “Weak sauce, man.”
“Don’t call me that.”
She arches a brow. “Weak sauce?”
“Or man. That’s for the guys, so you gotta stop.”
Her lips twitch. Eyes brighten. I see it—the moment she makes the choice to flirt back. “How ’bout you come up here and make me?”
Fuck, I can’t resist this girl when she’s being playful.
I drop my jacket on a nearby weight bench. Opening the fridge, I grab a water and chug it. Feel like I need to hydrate for this.
When I’m done I walk toward her, I unbutton my cuffs and roll my sleeves up to my elbows.
“You mean business.”
I dig my finger into my bow tie and yank it loose. Unbutton the first couple buttons on my shirt. Maren watches me, eyes going hazy. I smile. “You got no idea, sweetheart.”
“This calls for some Snoop. Hang tight.” She scurries to the corner where her phone rests on the mini fridge. A second later, the familiar drum beat of “Drop it Like it’s Hot” fills the room.
Of course she’s got good taste in music.
And of course she’s biting her lip, shimmying her ass as she walks back toward me. “We did this routine in college. Watch.”
Like I’m able to look away.
She settles her legs shoulder width apart beside me. Moving her mouth in a silent countdown, she bursts into motion when the beat drops. It starts out very cheerleader-y. Arms up, arms down. Leg up, and up even more, and holy God did she just drop into a split?
She pushes back up to her feet in a steady, elegant motion that must take enormous core and arm strength. But she doesn’t miss a beat, her hips carving tight, rhythmic circles as she crosses her arms over her body and starts dancing, mouthing the lyrics to the song as she moves.
Her energy fills the room. My blood. My hips start to circle too. Glancing in the mirror, I see what a rhythmically-challenged dickwad I look like compared to Maren. She moves like a fucking jungle cat, lethally quick, exceptionally controlled.
Only the look in her eyes is wild.
I feel wild. I also have nothing to lose. I walked in here a little drunk, and all but challenged my nanny to a dance off like we’re in a teen movie starring that Magic Mike guy. Channing Tatum is his name I think? Tatum Channing?
Whatever the case, I’ve already made a fool of myself. Why not go all in?
Meeting Maren’s eyes in the mirror, I smirk. Go for it. I’m not trying to do a male stripper thing. I just dance how I want to.
I wanna make Maren smile. Laugh.
And she does, letting out a whistle as she watches me shake my shoulders and my ass. “Damn.”
I dance harder. Sweat breaks out along my scalp. I’m out of breath trying to keep up with the rhythm, but I don’t stop.
I can’t. Not when Maren twirls behind me, her front to my back, and then proceeds to pretend to hump me while pumping her clasped hands. Laughing, I play into it, sticking out my ass even more and swinging it side to side. Maren swats at it; I hold my fingers to my mouth in an ooh-that-hurt pose; she puts a hand on my back and laughs so hard she makes me laugh.