Free Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1) by Alex Elliott Page A

the men seated with him, and then he’s up and out of his chair. Now, I’m the one leaning to the side, then to the other, wondering if he’s leaving. I track his movement, my heart thudding, and I’m edging off the dance floor. He’s a head taller than everyone else making him easy to track as he strides from the VIP section. Even in the dimly lit space between the bar and tables overlooking the dance floor, I follow his progress. When he enters a section that’s better lit, our gazes reconnect. We’re closer and in that flash, I can’t move. Or think. Or breathe. Tractor beams aren’t this strong or mind-warping. I’m no longer dancing, and without warning, my feet direct me toward him.
    Okay, wait , I tell myself. I can’t just head off his progress—he might be headed for the front door.
    A hulking guy grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks. “Baby doll, no reason to be alone. Let’s dance.”
    “Please let go,” I say, snapped out of fantasyland.
    “Or what?” he jeers. “No need to play hard to get.”
    “I’m not playing a game. Stop touching me. I asked nicely.”
    “So did I.” He yanks me to him, snarling, “I’ve got what you’re after.”
    Being suddenly restrained kicks my fight-or-flight up to the stratosphere. I try to wrest my wrist free, but can’t. This cave dwelling throwback has got to be kidding. “In case you never got the memo, Neanderthals and humans don’t interbreed.”
    “Apparently, you aren’t into nice.” This guy looks like he’s a jock or a gym rat, and his bulk doesn’t make up for him being minus in brain power.
    Think, X! Screaming like a banshee isn’t a solution. Either I can hover at the edge of the dance floor with this jerk, getting knocked and bashed, or kick him in the shin.
    “The lady gave you a direction.” The sound of a smooth baritone voice cuts through the music and sends a tingle up my spine.
    I jerk my wrist as the cretin snarls to my nameless backup, “Do yourself a favor, and get lost.”
    “Let go of the lady. She’s with me,” my would-be savior says in a calm tone that sounds all too quiet. “You should probably take your own advice. Or we could take this outside. Your choice.”
    The power in his voice reminds me of static electricity before thunder booms and lightning strikes.
    “Sorry, I-I-I didn’t know,” Mr. Cretin blusters, and like magic he unhands me and appears more than regretful. He repeats himself, “Sorry, man.”
    I pull back my arm and whip around. Grazing my fingers over the fine wool of a bespoke jacket, I gape at a pair of mountainous shoulders. Oh my… For the year it takes for my brain to reconnect, I lift my chin and face Orion in the flesh.
    “I hate when that happens,” he offers in words shaped by a rich Southern accent and towering like a redwood right in front of me.
    “Me more. And thanks,” I say and stare in stunned silence.
    “You’re quite a dancer.” His gaze harvests the thoughts from my head. This impenetrable specimen of a man isn’t like the mama’s boys I’ve known. Polar to Spencer.
    Up close, I look into his smoky grey-green eyes that don’t just consume, they devour. He holds off smiling, regarding me, and slightly cocks his head. In that instant, I want to run my fingers through his thick dark hair. Trace his chiseled face. All at once, it’s like the night of drinking pretty-colored shots goes straight to my forebrain, and I totter.
    “Whoa, I’ve got you.” His hand shoots out, taking hold of my arm. “Are you all right?”
    His touch isn’t static. The slight pressure of his fingers sends a racing jolt that hits me like a kilowatt of electricity as the thunder of tremors dance across my skin. “Uh, it’s kind of crowded here. I’m just hot,” I think I say.
    So much for grad school. I’m beyond intellectually stunted standing next to him. More so with his warm fingers curled along my wrist; it’s all I can do to stay upright.
    “Need something to drink?”