I love dancing.

During the occasional lull in business, I’ve been known to hit the dance floor, usually with a few members of my staff, to shimmy and shake along to whatever live musician I’ve brought in for the night. These impromptu sessions always involve heart-pounding good fun and lots of laughter.

But slow dancing with a man?

The last time I’ve done that … not my senior prom, which was so long ago I can’t remember my date’s name, much less what he looked like. I scramble through my memory and finally land on one from three years ago.

My cousin’s wedding. I was a last-minute replacement for a bridesmaid and danced with the groom, the groomsmen, and about half of the guests. It was fun and a few of the guys were sweet and good dancers, but none held a candle to the way Paul feels right now.

He’s more than six inches taller than me, so why do our bodies fit together like they’re made for one another?

His hand on the small of my back slowly strokes back and forth, cat-like. I arch into it, wanting the light strokes to both continue, while simultaneously knowing that I should put an end to this, that doing so now is the best thing for both of us.

My mouth opens, prepared to tell him, but the words refuse to come.

We sway in time to the music. His thighs brush against mine, sending little shivers of pleasure pulsing through my body. I struggle to reel in my emotions.

Cool it, girl, I firmly remind myself, even as my body snuggles into his. This guy, he’s way out of my league. The only reason he’s here now is because he’s new in town and bored. Dancing with me is the best form of fun he’s found. I’m available and dancing with me is cheap entertainment.

The thought should humble me, convince me to put some space between myself and him, but it doesn’t.

I try again.

I don’t know anything about this guy. He could be married, involved in a long term relationship. Hell, for all I know he could be a serial killer who routinely picks up bartenders and dances with them before ripping their still-beating hearts out of their chests.

The thought should chill me to the bone, but it doesn’t. All of my instincts tell me that Paul is one of the good ones.

I try again. And even if he is the so called “One” for me, what good does that do? We live a thousand miles apart. I can’t leave Chicago and he probably can’t leave North Carolina. And there’s no way I have time for any type of relationship. Better to end things right now.

This argument I can’t ignore. I let my head fall back, ready to tell him we need to end this right now. That it can’t go any further, that … And I find him staring down at me. The warmth and kindness in his dark eyes causes my insides to melt until they feel like milk chocolate that’s been left out in a pool of sunlight. An arrow of insight strikes me. Tonight, just for tonight, I’m not going to be logical and practical. I’m not going to make myself sick worrying about all the different things that might go wrong. I’m going to live in the moment and enjoy having his hands on my body.

Just this once, I’m going to let whatever happens happen, and simply enjoy the ride. If tonight ends with the last strains of Moonlight Serenade filling the air, that’s fine. If it goes further … Not wanting to explore that, I let the thought trail off.

As if reading my mind, Paul changes the grip on my hand and lifts it. Without breaking eye contact, he places a light, toe-curling kiss on my wrist.

Shuddering, I lean in closer until my entire body presses against his, until it’s impossible to tell where he ends and I begin. His spicy cologne assails my senses. I slide my arms around his shoulders, linking my fingers behind his neck.

His own hands slide down the side of my upper body, triggering sparks of electric pleasure everywhere they touch before they finally settle on my waist, gripping me tightly just above the generous curve of my hip.

My upbringing, my common sense, should be screaming at me right now, pointing out that getting so wrapped up in a stranger is not only foolhardy, but also dangerous.

But that part of me is strangely silent. Silenced, no doubt, by the strange, overwhelming warmth that’s steadily building in my core.

How can something be wrong when it feels so good?

Paul doesn’t give me an opportunity to explore the thought. He bows his head, his lips finding the side of my neck and placing a light kiss on my pulse point, at the very spot I dabbed a bit of perfume on just before stepping behind the bar for the night.

I tilt my head to the side, pressing my brow to his strong shoulder, giving him better access, offering it to him the same way an ancient Greek warrior would have offered a virgin sacrifice to his gods.

Thinking about virgin sacrifices sends me crashing back to my senses. The comparison hits a bit close to home. Maybe I should tell Paul …

Not one to let an opportunity pass, Paul drops a line of sweet kisses along the curve of my neck, derailing my thoughts and making me forget all of my concerns. This feels way too good to worry about something as trivial as virginity.

I close my eyes and concentrate on how my body responds to his touch. This is a moment that’s meant to be savored, each second committed to memory so that I can pull the experience out during all the long, cold, lonely Chicago winter nights that are just around the corner.

Finally, his lips find mine.

They’re softer than those of any other man I’ve ever kissed. Even as I realize this, the tip of his tongue traces the seam formed by my lips. I submit to his urgings and grant him access. Our tongues swirl together in a strange dance that’s as old as time. I detect the faint, familiar traces of the whiskey I served him. Strange, it tastes better now than it ever has before.

His grip on my waist tightens, his fingers pressing through the sheer material of my dress as he pulls me even closer, a hardness pressing against my navel that lets me know that he’s as turned on by the kiss as I am.

The pressure that first started building when he took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor builds. If I don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to explode.

As if sensing my urgency, Paul deepens the kiss. I moan into his mouth, completely lost in sensation. His hands slide lower, covering my ass, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, squeezing almost to the point of pain before easing up on the pressure and soothing the flesh with long, slow, circular rubs.

My knees tremble. My fingers twist into his hair, as if that will help me remain upright while my entire body turns to liquid.

My mind, unable to cope with the myriad of sensations, shuts down. Time is measured not in seconds, but heartbeats. Heat shoots through my body in a way I never imagined possible.

He pulls back, unbowing his neck just enough so he can press a kiss against my brow as his cock twitches to life against my belly, the firm pressure assuring me that even though he broke the kiss, Paul is still very much into me.

In the dim lighting, his dark eyes shine down into mine. There’s no mistaking the intense desire swirling in their depths and I know the same thing burns in mine. Around us, the air seems to buzz and crackle with pent-up longing and anticipation.

Paul slides one hand up my body until it circles the back of my neck. He nudges my hair aside and strokes the soft skin beneath it. I close my eyes and practically purr.

He dips his head, pressing another kiss to my parted lips, triggering another moan. His hand tightens against my neck as the kiss deepens. I forget about the music, the lighting, everything. The only thing that matters is his kiss and his touch.

Paul pulls back a second time. Breathing ragged, he presses his brow against mine.

“I’ve never …” I struggle to remember how to form words, to figure out how to string them together into a coherent sentence. Two kisses, apparently that’s all it takes to render me mute.

Paul’s thumb strokes my cheek, soothing me. “Me too.”

My brow furrows as I process those two words. Somehow, I don’t think he’s talking about the same thing I am, but for the life of me, I can’t think of what else he might mean.

“So now … What … I don’t…” My inability to make myself understood frustrates me.

Paul bends and tucks one arm behind my knee, the other against my shoulders. The next thing I know, he’s lifted me up and off my feet and has me cradled against his wide chest.

“Now.” He kisses my forehead. “We find.” His lips brush against my cheek. “Someplace.” A butterfly soft kiss to my lips that ends before I can fully enjoy it. “More comfortable.”