He couldn't believe it; she was his.
So close to her moist lips, her small hand in his, her lower back against his palm, and her summery skirt about his khaki covered knees—if he'd had to choose, he'd have passed her by just to spare himself the torture. But the instructor had said, "Kate will dance with Robert," and that was that; Kate's dewy dark eyes sought his, and his heart stopped.
He couldn't remember how they closed the space between them.
The scent of vanilla rose like warmth from her skin, and he seemed hyper aware of every goose bump and tiny hair along her cheek and jaw, like pale down on a smooth surface. The pink curves of her ear fascinated him, her wisps of hair a distraction. Unable to fight his racing pulse or the rising heat of his body, he swallowed to moisten a throat gone dry, willed himself to breathe.
Then she rested her cheek and chest against him and stole his breath.
Her hair smelled like strawberries—his last coherent thought before he felt her heart pounding against his, her soft mouth slide along his sensitive neck.
He forgot to dance.