Champagne Rules (39 page)

The audience sighed and murmured.

No in-your-face undies on this guy, but his costume was even more appealing for being subtle.

He wore slim-fitting tuxedo pants, a black tux vest and a black bowtie. No shirt, just tanned arms with exactly the right amount of musculature.

“Take a picture!” Ann ordered.

Damn, Jenny’d been so caught up in watching, she hadn’t taken a single shot. Hurriedly she lifted her camera and took a few full-body shots, then zoomed in on his face. Strong planes, vivid blue eyes, sandy hair. Serious, not smiling or flirting with the audience as the others had done.

In fact, it was almost as if he was unaware of the audience. As if it was just him, listening to that sultry music as wisps of smoke curled up around him.

His head moved just a little, then his upper body, all in time with the music, and then, finally, he stepped forward and began to dance.

To tap dance.

She’d never seen anything like it. His shoes were tap shoes, but this was no slick Gene Kelly
American in Paris
type tap, nor was it the Celtic
Riverdance
style. It was slow, almost shuffly, bluesy. And very, very sexy.

She squeezed her thighs together. Way sexier than the silverhaired guy. The man on stage would take a kind of scuffing step, hip thrusting forward and out, then do a kind of muffled drum-roll of taps, heel to toe. His posture was perfect, but graceful and fluid rather than tense, and his arms moved sensually, in opposition to his legs. He made Jenny think of a tango dancer with an imaginary partner.

Tap, tango, blues . . . Whatever you called it, this was the sexiest dance ever invented.

“Is it hot in here?” she gasped, torn between staring, mesmerized, and taking pictures. Awesome pictures, what with the smoke, the blue light, and the man.

“That’s amazing,” Rina sighed. “Don’t you just want to take him home?”

Take him home, for her own private dancer. Oh, yeah. No question about it. Well, not home, where she lived with her family. But somewhere, anywhere, where she could be alone with him and leap those beautiful bones.

A minute or two into the number, he slipped off the tux vest and tossed it casually on the pile of firefighter clothes. There was only one word for his torso. No, two. Holy shit!

It was perfect. Firm pecs, a drift of damp hair plastered to his body, arrowing down a lean abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch him.

The tux pants shifted and clung as he moved, and Jenny zoomed in with her camera. Oh, man, he was getting turned on just as much as she was.

Had she said beautiful bones? Try beautiful
boner!

It wasn’t just her fingers itching now.

She licked her lips. “Nothing dysfunctional about that guy’s package,” she told her friends.

She zoomed up to his face. His expression was intense, focused. Focused on the saxophone, or on his own arousal?

Definitely not on the audience. It was as if he didn’t see the hundreds of people whose attention he’d captured so completely. The crowd was silent now, but for an occasional whisper, the rustle of clothing, the clink of ice cubes. It was as if none of them mattered to him. Somehow, this man’s bearing, his distance from his audience, was far more arousing than the in-your-face lewdness of the other guys who’d performed.

Arousing.

Oh, God, her black silk thong was soaked and her pussy was throbbing with need.

“Mr. February,” she announced to her friends. No question, the bluesy tap-dancer, the smoky saxophone guy, would win the most coveted slot.

“There’s still six more to go,” Suzanne murmured.

“Not relevant.” Didn’t Suze get it? No-one could top this man.

The music ended and the blue spotlight shut off, making the audience gasp. The dancer was gone.

But then the spot came back on, and he was standing quietly, hands clasped in front of him—hiding his erection? For the first time he made eye contact with the audience, and they were yelling the roof off. He smiled—kinda lazy, kinda cocky, definitely sexy. Damn, he was hot. Normally Jenny went for the intellectual type, but tonight she was into the purely physical. 

If she was trapped in a burning building, she’d want a guy who was strong, capable, physical. And now she was trapped inside a body that was burning up with lust, and she knew just the firefighter who could rescue her.

Yeah, she wanted this guy. She wanted those hot, sweaty muscles, she wanted that supremely functional dick. She wanted him to concentrate as intensely on her as he had on the music, to be even more turned on, to move inside her the way he’d moved to that saxophone.

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