Chapter 19: The Dance

Harper stood in front of her cracked bathroom mirror Sunday evening, smoothing the lines of a deep emerald dress that clung to her like a second skin. The neckline dipped low, the hem grazed her thighs, and the fabric shimmered with every move—a deliberate choice for tonight's dinner with Zane Carver at 7 p.m. Her body still hummed from their afternoon clash—his hips grinding against hers on the penthouse counter, her moans echoing off the marble, the maddening interruption of his phone. They'd left it unresolved, a promise hanging in his growled We're not done, and now, as she swiped on red lipstick and let her hair fall in loose waves, she felt the pull, ready to test him again.She'd spent the hours since pacing her apartment, the ache of unmet desire warring with the warmth of his trust—the walnut table, the flowers, the way he'd looked at her like she was more than a fling. Tonight was no counter, no work—just them, out in the world, and she dressed to provoke, to see how far he'd bend before breaking. Her phone buzzed—his text, curt and on time: Downstairs. Car's waiting. She grabbed her clutch, heels clicking as she descended, her pulse a steady thrum of anticipation.He stood by a sleek black sedan, leaning against the door in a charcoal suit—jacket open, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his gray eyes catching the streetlights as they locked onto her. His smirk was instant, dangerous, raking over the dress, lingering on the neckline, the bare stretch of her legs. "Fuck, Harper," he said, his voice low, opening the car door. "You're trying to kill me.""Trying?" She slid in, her dress riding up slightly, flashing thigh as he followed, the leather seat cool against her skin. "Thought I'd succeeded this afternoon."He laughed, rough and warm, his hand settling on her knee as the driver pulled away. "Close. Tonight's your funeral."The restaurant was a tucked-away gem in the West Village—dim lights, exposed brick, a corner booth that felt like a cocoon. They ordered—steak for him, risotto for her, a bottle of Pinot Noir—and the air crackled, their banter sharp and flirty, a game of push and pull. His foot nudged hers under the table, deliberate and slow, and when she leaned forward to sip her wine, the dress gaped, giving him a glimpse of lace beneath."Keep that up," he murmured, his voice dropping, his hand sliding to her thigh under the tablecloth, "and we won't make it to dessert.""Promises, promises," she teased, her fingers brushing his on the stem of her glass, a spark that made her breath catch. "You're all talk tonight."His grip tightened, his eyes darkening. "Test me."Dinner blurred—food a secondary thrill to the heat building between them, his knee pressing hers, her laugh drawing his smirk. By the time they stumbled out, wine-warm and reckless, the night air was a shock, but his hand on her lower back was a steady burn, guiding her back to the car. "Penthouse," he told the driver, his voice rough, his fingers tracing circles on her spine as they sped uptown.The elevator ride was torture—his body close, his scent drowning her, her dress catching the light as he watched her like a predator. When the doors opened, the penthouse was dark, city lights spilling through the windows, soft jazz humming from the speakers. He kicked off his shoes, shedding his jacket, and turned to her, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his stance loose but loaded."Dance with me," he said, not a question, holding out a hand, his eyes glinting with mischief and something deeper.She arched a brow, kicking off her heels, the hardwood cool under her bare feet. "You dance?""Badly." His smirk widened as she took his hand, letting him pull her close, his other arm banding around her waist. "But I'll manage."The music was slow, sultry, and they moved—less a dance, more a sway, her hips brushing his, his hand splaying low on her back, guiding her. Her arms slid around his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and he groaned, soft and low, his forehead resting against hers as their bodies aligned—chest to chest, thigh to thigh, a rhythm that echoed this afternoon's heat."You're trouble," he muttered, his lips brushing her temple, his hands tightening, pulling her flush against him. "This dress—""You like it?" She tilted her head, her mouth hovering near his, her hips rocking deliberately, teasing the hardness she felt through his slacks."Fucking love it." His voice dropped to a growl, and he spun her, backing her against the window, the glass cold against her spine, his body hot against her front. His hands slid to her hips, gripping tight, and he pressed in, his arousal evident, drawing a gasp from her lips."Zane—" Her voice broke, her hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer as he ground against her, slow and deliberate, the friction sparking through her dress, her core. She moaned, loud and unrestrained, her head tipping back against the glass, the city sprawling below a dizzying blur."Harper—" His growl was rough, needy, his mouth crashing down—not a kiss, not yet, just a hard press of lips, hovering as his hands roamed—up her sides, brushing the edge of her dress, teasing the lace beneath. She arched, her hips bucking against him, the heat building, clothes a maddening barrier as he rocked harder, the window rattling under their weight."Goddamn it," he rasped, his lips brushing her jaw, her neck, kissing the fading bruise he'd left, his teeth grazing as she whimpered, her legs parting to pull him tighter. Her hands slid down his chest, clawing at the fabric, and he groaned, his fingers slipping under the dress's hem, grazing her thigh, inching higher."Take it off," she panted, her voice husky, her body trembling with want, her nails digging into his shoulders as he ground against her, chasing the edge."Not yet," he muttered, his hand retreating, gripping her hip instead, his mouth hovering over hers, teasing. "Want to savor you like this."She laughed, breathless and frustrated, shoving at his chest, but he didn't budge—just pressed closer, his lips brushing hers, a whisper of a kiss that made her moan again. "You're a bastard," she gasped, her hips rocking, seeking more, the tension coiling tight."And you're a wildfire," he shot back, his voice wrecked, his hands sliding to her ass, lifting her slightly, aligning them perfectly as he thrust against her—clothes on, but the intent raw, electric. She cried out, her nails raking his back, the glass fogging behind her as their breaths mingled, hot and desperate.But then—damn it—the music cut out, a sharp silence breaking the spell, and he froze, his chest heaving, his forehead pressed to hers. "Fuck," he cursed, pulling back just enough, his hands still on her, trembling with restraint."Timing," she panted, sliding down, her legs shaky, smoothing her dress with trembling hands, her body a live wire of unmet need."Always," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with hunger, watching her. "Tomorrow, 11 a.m. Bedroom tweaks. No dresses.""No promises," she said, smirking despite the ache, grabbing her clutch as she headed for the elevator, her hips swaying deliberately. "Night, Carver.""Harper—" His voice stopped her, rough with want as the doors opened. "You're still mine."She didn't reply, just stepped inside, the doors closing on his silhouette—shirt rumpled, eyes blazing, a promise unspoken. Her apartment welcomed her with silence, the couch a poor substitute for his arms, but she collapsed onto it, her body still humming, the dance replaying in her mind—his hands, his heat, the edge they'd teetered on. Tomorrow loomed, and she knew—damn it—she'd push him again, ready to burn.