Love's Paradox

Chapter 3: Shoeless Dancing

"You have a lovely voice, Rae," Parker says. He pushes my beer back to me. "I promise I didn't poison it."

"What do you want?" I ask, my voice a tad agitated. Between my memories of Ian and my shaky nerves, I'm allowed to be unhinged. And it isn't like his biker persona is helping to ease the tension in my shoulders.

Parker leans forward, crooking a finger for me to do the same. I glance around the bar to see my friends mimicking sexual acts while gesturing toward us. I glare at them before returning my gaze to Parker.

I lean in, eyebrows high in question. "Yes?"

He brings his lips to my ear, his hot breath fanning over my skin and giving me chill bumps all the way down to my toes. Damn him. "I want you," he whispers.

He lingers at my ear, the scent of leather and sandalwood wafting off his skin. When he sits back, he's not smirking or giving me cocky, knowing eyes like I'm expecting. Instead, he continues to watch for my reaction with those penetratingly dark eyes.

All my nerves fire at once—or that's what it feels like—and I scramble to my feet. My knees hit the bottom of the table, and our drinks tumble over. I tangle with the chair and am about to fall onto the disgustingly sticky floor when strong hands reach over the table and grab my upper arms, holding me steady as my chair crashes to the ground.

My face is on fire as those closest turn to witness my idiocy, many of them cheering what they think is drunken discombobulation. I would bow for my audience, but Parker's hands are still on me. He smiles as I shake him off.

"Thanks for the save, but—"

"That's twice now," he cuts in, sauntering to my side of the table. "I think that earns me at least two songs worth of dancing. Plus, you spilled my drink. Make it three."

Every fiber of my being is telling me to run from this man as I picture him punching Ian, most likely breaking his nose. As satisfying as it was to see Ian be the victim, it didn't stop the memory flashes of Ian's own hands gripping me too hard. But Parker might be different, and I tell myself it's just the fear talking. He could be the friendly, defender-of-women, heart-of-gold type of biker for all I know.

"What the hell. I need a little adventure in my life," I finally say. "But I'm not buying you another beer."

He grins and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against his body. Not at all expecting this, I lose a shoe and clutch his shoulders to prevent my bare foot from touching the floor.

"What are you doing?" I ask, clenching his shirt for support.

"Dancing." He lifts me off the ground and drags me onto the dance floor, leaving behind my death trap of a shoe.

"But— My shoe."

"Your friend will make sure no one steals it." He spins me around to where Cherry is waving my shoe at me, a stupid smirk spread across her face.

I'm going to hide all her mirrors for doing this to me.

"Don't drop me," I order, clinging to Parker like a skirt to pantyhose.

"Oh, don't you worry, darlin'. I'm not letting you go anywhere."

"Stupid southern drawl," I mutter under my breath.

It's been so long since anyone has held me like this: fierce and determined, strong yet gentle. Even though we aren't paired together like the grinding dancers around us, it feels right. My insides go all swoopy, and I stare up into his handsomely chiseled face, my arms encircling his neck.

Wait. What? No, no, no. He's a big, ex-fiancé punching, leather-wearing biker who probably has a mermaid tattooed somewhere on his body. Or a naked woman riding a dragon. It's not my fault I've been sexless for six, long, dreadfully dry months. But, dammit, my body feels so perfectly right against his.