Nathaniel Frost, King of the Toronto pack, guides me smoothly from my fiancé's side. It's that easy for him to simply overwhelm me and render me helpless. It's dizzying, almost exhilarating, definitely terrifying.
"I haven't tangoed often," I manage to warn him as he pulls me far too close.
"It isn't my strong suit, either," he quips, though his feet prove he's lying as they somehow manage to avoid my clumsy ones. "Don't expect any dips or fancy footwork."
I snort; I can't help myself. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, that's about ninety percent of the tango."
"You're wrong," he informs me. "And while we're dancing, call me Nathan."
My mouth drops open. I quickly compose myself and try to shock my brain into remembering what, exactly, my body should be doing. Step, step, step, close. Step, step, step, close. Maybe all those dance lessons Mother forced us to take really were a practical choice. If Vivianne Dixon ever imagined that her daughter would be tangoing with the Pack Leader…
But this man isn't truly our King. He's a usurper. He's an enemy, and our bodies touch from ankle to chest. His intense gray eyes lock on mine as one of his large palms splays across my lower back. This is nothing like dancing with Ashton. I don't feel like Nathan is holding an imaginary version of me.
"You're the one who invoked the Right," he whispers.
I freeze, and he takes advantage of the moment to trap my foot with his own. To anyone watching, it's a stylized pause in the dance.
"What did you do in London?" he asks, moving one hand to my hip. I swear the heat from his palm burns through my dress. And yet, somehow, he still seems cold.
"I worked." The physical contact is unbearably distracting. Or maybe the conversation is distracting me from the physical contact and that's what I really want to focus on. Either way, it's interminable and I'm thankful that tangos aren't long.
"What kind of work?" He's not out of breath. He's not flushed and clammy. Somehow, only one of us is affected by the other's proximity and it's mortifying.
"Just office work. For an architectural firm." We move again, a cross-step that requires more concentration as I desperately try to recall those adolescent ballroom lessons. And I realize that's the point; he's picked this specific dance, which, despite his protesting, he's much better at than I am. He's trying to muddle my thoughts with his closeness.
I'm being interrogated via "Por una Cabeza."
Pretending I don't know his game, I add, "I wanted to truly embrace the reality of being human. Were I to choose that path."
"And you did it without any support from pack members abroad?" He sounds more impressed than incredulous.
Is it a trick? Is he mocking me? I can only answer honestly. "I don't know any pack members abroad."
"Ah. Well. Now you do." His leg smoothly tangles with mine, and I have no choice but to lean into his body.
"You're not abroad. You're right here." I pull back but he leads me in a turn and stops my momentum suddenly.
His face is so close I see flashes of blue against the gray of his eyes like a ring of icicles around his pupils, but his tone is molten heat. "Yes, I am."
My knees almost give out.
The song finishes but he doesn't release me for a long moment. I'm not sure how I want the interaction to end, but just the fact that it is ending is a relief and a disappointment all at once.
No one has ever sent my emotions—and libido—spinning as out of control as he does with just a few words or a glance.
"It's been a true pleasure, Bailey," he says finally.
"Same, Nathan."
When a king tells one to call him by his first name, one should try it out at least once.
He grins. I've caught him off guard. Composing himself, he tells me, "Should you visit London in the future, call the royal office. There may be…opportunities to discuss."
And he just walks away like we had a totally normal interaction. He walks away and leaves me standing alone, under the sudden scrutiny of the entire ballroom.
The throne room is empty and cold, and I shiver in the darkness. It's not the temperature causing me to tremble; he's here with me, his hand on the nape of my neck. His grip is soft but strong, lightly possessive as he steers me toward the dais.
The King wants me. And I pledged that I would do anything for him.
The thin straps of my gown tear away like paper, leaving me bare before him. He's standing in front of me now, his eyes flashing silver, collecting up every faint trace of light, every stray glimmer from the unlit candelabras on the walls and lines of illumination leaking under the doors.
A predator's eyes that can see in the dark and take in every bit of me.
As he'll take every bit of me.
He doesn't need to take. I'll give all of myself, gladly. When he pulls me into his arms, I surrender control of my body over to him. His shirt is butter-soft, but it's still too much against my aching, oversensitive breasts. I need more than a feathery brush of fabric. I want his fingers, his mouth, I want him to reach up and pinch my nipples while I ride his cock.