Jannah
He's about eleven feet away, maybe less now. I can't breathe.
Aaron.
He leans against the far wall like he owns the place-hips cocked lazily, a champagne flute balanced in his right hand, a brooding stillness around him like smoke. His eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, cut through the chaos and music until they land squarely on me.
My stomach tightens. He doesn't blink. Doesn't shift. Just watches me.
And even though he's standing there like he couldn't care less, like this whole scene is beneath him, I swear I feel him in my fucking bones. My bare skin lines with goosebumps under his gaze, like I've been standing under the rain for too long and I small shiver runs through me.
His eyes drag-slowly–from my face down to my very revealing chest– breasts, lingering like a silent dare, and then they move further-pausing, hovering-until they reach my feet. A wave of heat bursts in my gut. Familiar, dangerous, twisted heat that causes me to suck in a sharp breath.
But then something shifts in his expression. His lips twitch downward. Almost a frown. Lust warps into something else. Disgust? Disappointment? I can't tell.
The mix of it messes with me.
How long has he been staring?
My cheeks flush and a pulse jumps in my throat. I breathe in too fast. My chest rises and falls in a hurried rhythm that doesn't match the beat anymore. His brow lifts subtly as he sips from his glass. There's a bored gleam in his eye, like he's unimpressed. Dismissive.
Whatever.
I roll my eyes and flip my curls back, pretending I don't care. Just because Mr. Aaron Fucking Steele is here doesn't mean I'll stop. The last time I checked, this was The Grid, not Cyber Blue. He can fuck off with his CEO attitude and that ice-in-his-veins stare. I don't need his seal of approval.
He sets the glass down on a passing waiter's tray, head cocking back in that effortless, almost lazy challenge of his. And then those light brown eyes drift back to me-slower this time, much more intense too. They glide over my body in a way that makes me feel like I'm not wearing nearly enough clothes.
I lick my bottom lip, throat suddenly dry. God help me, he's still got that damn magnetic pull. If sexy were a person, it'd be Aaron Hunt, no question. Now I finally understand why Clinton's mysterious side always reminded me of someone.
I glance down and fold one arm over the other, trying to protect myself from a gaze that feels like it's stripping me bare. But then-he moves.
Just one step forward.
That's all it takes.
And it's predatory.
His stride is slow and confident, like a tiger about to pounce. I feel it in my legs. In my thighs. I press them together and exhale, but the heat doesn't go anywhere. It clings to me, wraps around me, threatening to burn through my skin.
A low, raspy sound escapes my throat. I pretend it's from the heat, from the music, from anything but him.
This is so messed up. I'm not giving him this power. Not tonight.
So I turn.
Back to the center of the dance floor, back to the music, back to me.
Only this time, I don't hold back.
I let the beat own me-slow, dark, sensual. Every movement is deliberate now, every sway of my hips designed to tempt. To tease. My body becomes the rhythm. I arch my back, curve into it, let my hands trail up the sides of my waist until they find my chest.
Fingers curl around the swell of my breasts and I squeeze softly, teasingly, pushing the boundaries of decency. I dip two fingers into my mouth and run them along my chin, down my neck, slow and wet. A slick trail that ends between the curves of my exposed cleavage.
Let him look. Let him really look.
I drop low, knees bent, ass tilted in a perfect arch as my waist rolls in a hypnotic circle. My palms slide over my thighs, up the back of my body until they cup my ass, giving it a squeeze before I run them forward and rise again with a roll that would make a stripper applaud.
Hair falls across my face as I toss my head, the curls damp with sweat and heat. I peek through the curtain of strands and bite my lip, giving a sultry smirk to no one and everyone all at once.
But when I glance back-he's gone.
The spot where Aaron was standing is empty. No tall, broody silhouette. No sharp brown eyes. Just a void.
And somehow... I'm pissed.
I stop dancing altogether. The thrill-the edge-I was feeding off evaporates. Part of me danced for me. But another part-shameless and honest-danced for him. For his attention. For that hungry stare.
Where the fuck did he go?
I search the crowd, lifting my chin as I scan the ocean of bodies. The lights flash pink, then blue, then blood red. Faces blur and grind together, a sea of lust and sweat. Men eye me like I'm for sale. One licks his lips. Another openly gropes himself, his tongue flicking out like a toad catching flies.
Ew. I shoot him a glare that could freeze hell over.
And then-him.
A shadow in the far corner. Watching.
But it's not Aaron.
This one is blonde, hair tied back in a messy bun and an obvious stuble on his chin. He's got this rugged charm-smirking like he knows something filthy. His eyes sparkle, his glass raised in silent toast. There's something cocky about the way he leans on the column, one foot crossed in front of the other, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
He's cute. Maybe even hot. Not Aaron hot, but enough to make me linger.
I blow him a kiss, slow and exaggerated, and he chuckles-deep and amused. He taps a finger against his heart like he's keeping it, and starts walking toward me. I smirk, twirling a piece of hair between my fingers.
Let's see where this goes.
"You're cute," I mouth.
He winks in response.
But before he reaches me-before I can decide if I actually want him close-someone clears their throat behind me.
My heart lurches and my shoulders slump.
That voice-I know it too well. I hear it every week at work, rumbling behind glass walls, sharp and professional. It's Clinton's voice. Except this isn't Clinton.
I already know.
I turn slowly, my entire spine going rigid. My breath stills in my throat as I face him.
Aaron.
He's standing too close. Close enough for me to smell the spice of his cologne, warm and sharp and expensive. His left hand is dipped in his pocket, but his other hovers slightly, like he wants to reach out but something holds him back.
"I see you're enjoying yourself," he says, tone deceptively light. His eyes drop -briefly-to my lips, and I swear they darken for a second. "Bit much, don't you think?"
I shrug. "Depends who's watching..." I pause the add, "Mr Steele"for effect.
He smiles. Barely. One corner of his mouth lifts slightly ,but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"You shouldn't flirt with strangers," he says a casually–but I don't miss the reprimand I his voice , nodding toward Blondie, who's now paused a few feet away, obviously rethinking his decision.
"Why?" I challenge, head tilted.
"Because you don't know what they want from you."
"And you do?"
He steps closer, lowering his head to my ears, his hot breath fanning against the nape of my neck when he lets out a breath. My breath catches in my throat and I tilt my neck sideways.
"Jannah..." His voice drops, almost a whisper. "Stay away from my brother."
I blink. The words hit like a slap I didn't see coming. So he didn't want to...kiss me?
"What?"
His jaw clenches, and for a second-just a second-his guard drops. There's something raw in his eyes. Something I can't place my finger on.
"I mean it," he murmurs, gaze locked to mine.
And just like that he gives me one last look-half-annoyed, half-warning-and turns, disappearing into the crowd like he was never here at all.
I'm left standing there, chest heaving, heartbeat pounding like a Konga drum.
What the hell was that?