Cult

10: Sinfully Ω

Harry's hand grazes down my back before he fits it to the curve of my waist. He takes my other hand firmly in his, as though we belong together. I glare at him. Why is he here?

Swiftly, Harry mimics the moves of the previous dancers. I follow along, suppressing the urge to step on his foot until he cries out in pain. I just have to get through this spotlight dance and ignore the fact that everyone is staring at us, not just because I'm the mayor's daughter but because Mr. Red Bandanna is dancing with me. I want to choke him with that damned bandanna.

Harry holds my gaze and bites down playfully on his lip. This is so funny to him, one big hilarious joke. Harry steps closer to me. His chest touches mine faintly. His body is warm, relaxed. He smells of a deep cologne, something with cinnamon and burning wood. It's an interesting combination, sort of soothing, but my body has gone rigid with confusion and frustration.

Why did my father give me to Harry?

Slowly, Harry's hand trails down my spine before rubbing gently at the small of my back. His breath is steady, tingling down the nape of my neck. He swipes his tongue over his lower lip in the slow, vulgar way he's so good at. I grip his hand tightly, digging my nails into his palm.

"Where are your glasses, ginger?" Harry asks. He lets his hand cup my cheek slightly. I shrug his hand away and ignore his question. But Harry continues to hold my face and lets his finger trace my lower lip as though he doesn't recognize my face.

Why is he staring at me?

"What are you doing here?" I demand quietly, well aware that the crowd is watching. I avoid looking out at them because I can't see them clearly since I'm missing my glasses. But I also don't want to see them. My mother is probably plotting my father's death right now. Sonya is most likely laughing or scrutinizing Harry. I don't even want to know what Zayn is going to do.

Harry shrugs. His broad shoulders tighten, crinkling his chrome black suit. "Dancing with you," he answers obviously. He takes a strand of my hair and twirls it in his fingers. I roll my eyes. I don't have time for his games.

"Your hair is so soft, so red, like blood," he says, his fingers grasping a few pieces. His eyes meet mine. I ignore his comment and refocus on the real issue.

"You know what I mean. What are you doing at this Ball?" I ask him, looking down at his long legs. I am quite tall, but Harry has a few inches over me and he enjoys using those few inches to his advantage. He peaks down at my chest. His eye catches on my necklace and his jaw grits.

"You're a terrible dancer so I figured I'd be your partner," he explains. His eyes watch my legs momentarily, realizing that I am barely keeping up. His eyes linger.

"Wow, you're so considerate," I grumble. Harry laughs quietly. His dimples crease into his grin line and a light sparks in his wintergreen eyes. There is something infectious about his smile. I nearly find myself laughing along.

But I don't.

Harry slides his hand lower on my waist and tugs me closer against his chest in one swift motion. I feel the beat of his heart against my breasts. He raises my hand in the air and twirls me around. His feet continuously keep perfect rhythm with the music while I struggle to follow along.

"I thought you said you couldn't dance?" I raise a brow. Harry leans into me. His dark, moist lips brush briefly against my ear lobe.

"I lied."

Harry stands up straight, his steady hand trailing up my back. We continue our dance. I shake my head. "Fantastic. One of the many great qualities of Mr. Red Bandanna," I sigh in annoyance. Harry grins. His eyes trail down my body and rests on my legs.