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“No,” I say.
His brows draw together. “No?”
His confusion is actually warranted. I’ve never said a flat-outnoto him.
“No,” I repeat, still not offering a reason.
“Amelia,” he starts in that condescending tone he likes to use with me. “You’re being unreasonable. I think?—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
Gage’s hand settles at the curve of my back, and when he speaks, it’s with the kind of unfuckwithable authority that makes people listen. “She said no. And I’d say it’s about time you listened to her.”
Holy. God.
When Gage Black decides to take charge, he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t posture. He simplyowns the moment.
It’s the kind of command that doesn’t ask for space. It claims it.
James goes rigid. Fury in his jaw, his shoulders, every line of his body.
He doesn’t get the chance to respond. Because Gage is already moving.
He presses his hand more firmly against my back. “Amelia and I were just about to dance.”
It’s clear in his tone what he’s not saying.
Back off. Stay gone. Don’t test me.
He dumps the bougie sliders on our way to the dancefloor. Uneaten. Forgotten. He guides us through the room, his hand never leaving my back. I go willingly, and not just because I’m glad to be away from James.
No, I want this.
I want to dance with Gage and I’m not putting that feeling in a box to be analyzed later like I would normally do.
I’m not overthinking this.
When we reach the edge of the dancefloor, he turns into me, slides his hand around my waist, and brings his other hand up. Slowly, palm open, inviting.
I place my hand in his.
And then, we’re dancing.
His eyes drop to mine, and there’s something new there.
Concern.
Restraint.
Like he’s reading me second by second, checking for signs of hesitation.
His thumb brushes lightly over my hand. “Tell me if you don’t want this.”
I’m held by the weight of his gaze.
My thoughts scatter.
Everything slows, especially my breathing.