Ignited & Unhinged (Billionaire Secret, Book One)(Billionaire Romance, New Adult Romance, College Romance) (7 page)

It had been nearly a month since my adventurous foray into secret sex societies.

I’d managed to sit in the back corner of every art history class since then.

And with some creative timing that involved always descending the aisles
en masse
, always keeping my eyes fixed on the art slides, and
never
looking directly at Professor West, I had survived each class without dying of embarrassment.

My days were filled with classes, sections, clubs, mixers, and low-key parties thrown by different sets of friends.

Sundays I took a ballroom dance class at the gym. It was a big class taught by the ballroom team.

They’d teach us a step and then we’d rotate down a line of dance partners.

Some guys were better than others, but the best partners came from the team.

Advanced members mixed in with the new students and when it was your turn to dance with one of them, it was easily the most fun I’d had in college so far—sexy adventures excepted.

I hadn’t heard from Damon except for a few flirtatious texts.

We were both busy.

My world was very full with all the
new
college had to offer.

My thirst for new experiences kept me always on the go, always ready to try new things.

The overwhelming pace of it all kept my new sexual fire mostly at bay.

It’s Thursday and the SE Sextet is having their monthly party.

The Sextet is our House’s party suite, so named for the six people tasked with living there.

It was a coveted suite to get and a condition of their taking up residence in the massive two-story space, that could more accurately be described as a 3,000 square foot Manhattan penthouse apartment than a suite you would find in a dorm, is that they had to throw at least one huge party every month.

I wasn’t really in the mood to go out. The non-stop pace of school was getting to me and I was more interested in falling asleep with a good book than dressing up and drinking.

Ana, Jasmine, and Kim were adamant that I come out with them. They were fairly effective in persuading me to keep going, keep experiencing, even when I was exhausted and grumpy.

“Fine, but I’m not changing,” I complain as they collectively pull me from my desk chair where I had settled to read my email.

They examine me. Three sets of eyes look me up and down. It’s a little unnerving.

It isn’t that bad, is it? The Sextet parties were more…
come in jeans
, less London clubbing attire required—as I had designated Jasmine’s “va-va-voom” look.

I’m wearing dark skinny jeans with tall black boots that came up to my knees, and a loose fitting blue t-shirt with a geeky quote on the front.

Jasmine stares at me. I stare back. Unflinching.

She pouts.

“Please! Just a little va-va?!” She clasps her hands together, as if in prayer.

I’m still grumpy and in no mood to spend time or energy on my appearance.

“Why does it matter so much? You have a pathological need to make everyone around you look hot, like all the time, you know that?” The words are biting, but Jasmine knows my moods well enough to know that I’m not really mad.

Her expression doesn’t change.

I throw up my hands, “It’s a long-ass four years Jas, I’m never going to meet your impossible sex standards!”

That was a little dramatic, but only a little.

Jasmine claimed her need to make everyone in our suite look hot was just another manifestation of her creativity.

According to her, she couldn’t turn it off so we should all just give in.

She was persistent.

Her expression breaks, “Ugh, I’m not trying to be a bitch, Luv—I just need to make you gorge.”

She used as many abbreviations as possible.

She walks to my closet, “Here, at least change your top and let me spend five minutes on your makeup. Deal?”

She hands me a simple black tank top with one inch straps.

That wouldn’t be so terrible. I could leave my bra on since the tank top would cover the pink straps. I wouldn’t have to make any other alterations.

I eye her suspiciously. The compromise is too easy.

I look to Ana and Kim standing in the doorway. Kim nods in agreement. Ana just shrugs. Her
you should just give in already you know how she gets
look.

“Fine.” I throw off my t-shirt and quickly put on the tank top before she can pull a bait and switch.

“HA!” she squawks in triumph.

“OK, now sit your bum back down. I’m going to give you a luscious smoky eye that will make those green eyes pop out of your head.”

“Thanks for the graphic,” I chide.

“Eh, shut it! I’m doing a soft pink on your lips so if you keep talking the lipstick is going to find its way all over your face, and then I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to give you a complete makeover, which of course will look ridiculous with what you are wearing and then, well, I guess you’ll just have to change,” she sighs like her logic is incontrovertible.

There is no arguing with her so I shut my eyes and close my mouth.

Even though I can’t see, I get the sense that Jasmine is motioning to someone.

A few seconds later, Kim’s hands are in my hair. I know they’re Kim’s because Ana doesn’t have nails.

Great, that wasn’t part of the deal, but so long as the whole process didn’t take longer than five minutes I wasn’t going to complain. I was too tired.

Where did they get the energy?

Five minutes later I make them stop.

A quick look in the mirror tells me I look more badass than hot, I think.

The heavy eye makeup is badass anyway, my lips are light pink and my hair has volume.

It reminds me of the way Carrie Bradshaw looks in
Sex and the City
when she’s asked to model. Just before Heidi Klum tells her she looks “Fabulous!”

And then Carrie struts down the runway…and falls on her face.

I shake my head, no falling of any kind tonight.

Jas comes to stand behind me. I look at her just as she says, “You look fab, Luv! Just fab!”

Oh geez
.

Ana comes back into my room sporting a little blue dress, gives me a once over, and nods to designate her approval. “Let’s go Chicas!”

The Sextet is decked out with an impressive array of lights that swivel and move to a generic house beat I don’t recognize.

Then the music changes.

An 80s song comes on and I instantly find energy in the familiar melody.

“What’s with the lights?” I ask my suitemates. “They look…extreme for a dorm party.”

Kim answers, “Oh, they are! Jason, one of the guys who lives here, his father owns a few clubs in LA and New York so he set them up with a whole lighting system.”

I nod appreciatively.

She raises her voice so we can hear her over the music, “They can even be programmed to match whatever is playing.”

Kim dances in place for a beat and then leaves the three of us to go say hi to a girl waving to her from the top floor.

“To the bar!” I point towards the kitchen at the back of the first floor. “Y’all dragged me out so now you owe me a drink!”

We make our way through the crowd.

“What’ll you have?” The bartender speaks with an accent that makes my ears perk up. Scottish?

“Umm, I want something cold and frozen.” I turn to the girls, “Ideas?”

Jas and Ana exchange a glance.

“Blended margaritas!” they say in unison, laughing.

Had I missed something?

“What’s the inside joke, spill.” I narrow my eyes at them.

“HA! No nothing, we just had a pretty fun night at the last Sextet party with some awesome frozen strawberry margaritas,” Ana answers and then grins at Jas.

“They make Jas a little freaky, she was all over some poor guy who looked equal parts into it, and terrified,” she finishes.

“What?!” Jasmine’s back straightens. She drums her nails on the bar. “Ladies, I make no apologies. They make me horny, deal with it.”

We all turn to the bartender, who doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed by our conversation. In fact, he’s smiling at Jasmine and giving her bedroom eyes.

“I guess we’re gonna have some blended margaritas,” I say, snapping him out of it.

We stay near the bar. The drinks are perfectly blended and the tequila is top shelf. They go down oh so smoothly.

Before any of us know it we are three margaritas deep. I’m laughing hysterically with Ana about something that margarita-less me probably wouldn’t have thought was all that funny, when I notice Jas’ absence.

“Wha? Where’d she go?” I search around the bar.

The bartender is suddenly missing too.

Ana laughs so hard it’s almost a snort. “There she is over there,” she points.

Jas is attacking the tall, possibly Scottish, bartender in the corner of the room.

She is all hands and lips. The poor guy is definitely into it, but he’s having a hard time keeping up.

That would teach him to give her bedroom eyes when she’s drinking margaritas…I laugh at the thought.

She’s going at him so aggressively, I think she might actually throw him on the floor and have her way with him.

That would certainly turn some heads…

Sex in public…memories of that night with Damon come flooding back.

I force them away.

Tonight was just about having fun. A different form of blowing off steam.

No sex needed.

I drape an arm over Ana’s shoulders. We watch Jasmine and the bartender go at it some more before the growing crowd at the party blocks are view.

More and more people are pouring in.

Ana and I go back to talking about things that make us laugh. We double over in hysterics until I hold a hand out because my abs hurt so much.

“Ow, ow, stop! It hurts, it hurts!” I gasp for air.

I’m glad I came out. We were having pure, unhindered fun.

Ana notices something over my shoulder and smiles, “Oh hey, there’s my friend Carlos, I’m going to go say hi.”

“Ohh, Carlos.” I turn to look. “Is that the guy in your poli sci class you keep talking about?” I tease.

She nods.

He’s tall, but a little skinny for my taste. Ana looks like she’s reconsidering her approach.

She clearly needs a little push. “Well then, go get him!”

I give her a
come on don’t be a chicken
look.

“Fine, I will!” she says with mock hilarity and walks off.

I rest my elbows on the granite bar behind me. Looking out at the rest of the party.

It’s a big suite, but more people had continued to pile in and the place was now fairly packed.

The dance floor is a big square set on a raised platform in the corner, it is one of the only spaces that isn’t completely full.

The platform made dancing partygoers visible to everyone in the room.

The walls are white, I think, with exposed wooden beams. The wall closest to the main entrance is covered in leaded windows. It looks like it could be part of a cathedral.

Besides the windows and the beams, everything else looks new, cutting edge.

There are sleek black couches pushed towards the edge of the room and small tables scattered throughout.

I haven’t even been upstairs yet.

“Hey!” A male voice calls.

A second later, I’m staring into a handsome face.

He looks like Sebastian from
Reign
which was strange since that was actually his first name.

Sebastian Vale, one of the guys on the ballroom team—my favorite dance partner.

He didn’t always follow the main instructor which made him more fun than the others.

When they played the music so that we newbies could practice the steps, he would lead me into a complicated routine full of moves I had only seen the other team members do. It was easy to follow him.

“Bash! Hey!” I reach up to hug him.

In a deep voice with the hint of many accents I can never place, “There’s my favorite newbie follower.” He pokes me with his elbow.

I make a face. “Don’t say it like that!”

“Like what? It’s what you are,
follower,
” he says it again.

I hold up a finger like a diva, “I object to the term.” I intend to say it firmly, but the margaritas make it sound like a joke.

“We’ve gone over this, Elle, it isn’t sexist! Girls are leaders too, it just depends on which part you want to learn.”

“I know.” I wrinkle my nose.

I didn’t really object to the term, I just liked to argue with him. It was part of our banter.

Plus, I really did like being the follower. The leader had to make all the dance decisions, which meant that I didn’t have to think at all while dancing.

It was a better escape than sex.

No need to think about pleasing the other person…well only Damon so far.

The leader had all the control, made all the decisions. Period.

The more I cleared my head of everything the more complicated the dance could be because my brain shut off and my body kicked in—responding to all the subtle commands his body gave me.

He examines me, “You’re kind of tipsy, aren’t you?”

I check in with my body. Yup, definitely tipsy. A fun, floaty kind of tipsy. I nod.

“Well in that case, let’s dance. Tipsy dancing is the best. Come on.” He grabs my hand and tries to pull me away.

I resist.

“No, everyone can see you when you’re on the dance floor. It may as well be a stage. I’ll look like an idiot—especially next to you.”

“What are you talking about? You are such a good dancer, you don’t even know. The other team members have asked about you. They thought you were a transfer student who was part of another team before coming here.”

He
looks
earnest.

“You’re just being nice.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

The music changes and a salsa comes over the professional speakers.

In a slow exaggerated movement, he turns his head to me. And gives me a look I recognize.

I loved to dance salsa and he knew it. The look meant
come on now you have to
!

I stop resisting and let him pull me.

We had only just reached the dance floor when he uses the hand that holds mine to spin me into him and directly into a salsa basic.

Our hips move in time to the rhythm. Bash was big on turns and spins. He leads me in and out of several fast double spins and then into an around the world.

We continue to laugh and dance. He leads me into a series of more and more complicated moves I don’t know the names of, and I let my mind drift off.

My body is in tune with his and the music. The dance atmosphere, the margaritas, and Bash’s expert skills make me forget that people are probably watching.

It is so much fun I no longer care what I look like.

A few more salsa songs follow and then an upbeat ‘90s song I vaguely recognize. I start to break away from him and dance “regular” when he pulls me back.

“This isn’t ballroom.” I’m confused.

“It can be. You can dance ballroom hustle to this.”

“Like 70s disco hustle, big hair, bell bottoms…?”

“HA! No.” Abruptly he stops smiling and springs into action.

He grabs both of my hands, pushes me away from him as he pulls in the opposite direction and then back into him, and again.

“This is the basic. Now, don’t think, just follow me.”

He starts with the basic and then modifies it again and again. He spins me all over the place, we keep turning into unfamiliar steps, but the more I let go, the easier it is to do.

I laugh as I settle into his rhythm. It’s even more fun than salsa.

He continues teaching and leading me in different ballroom styles which I haven’t yet tried.

I don’t know how much time has passed and I don’t care. There is nothing like losing myself in the music.

“Let’s go get another drink.” He stops, finally breathing hard.

A minute later we are back at the bar. I get another margarita.

“So what made you join the ballroom dance team?” I asks him as I sip my drink.

“I love to dance,” he shrugs.

Simple. Obvious. But…

“It seems like most American guys don’t,” I observe. “Unless they’re gay,” I add and instantly regret it.

I loved my gay friends, but found that a lot of guys in high school were stupidly homophobic and I don’t want to offend him either way.

I look at him apologetically.

“HA! No, you’re fine. Only a few of the guys on the team are gay, a lot of them are straight, but have lived internationally or are from other countries,” he explains.

“Oh, that makes sense,” I nod.

I want him to keep talking. I don’t think he’s gay, but for some reason I want to hear him say it.

“I, for one, spent a lot of time abroad. My parents are diplomats so I spent time in Brazil, Spain, the UK, and France. People think of dance differently; it’s fun, and most people around the world don’t label fun as gay or straight. They do it if they like it, they don’t stop themselves because of what others might think.”

That explained his combo accent.

“Wow, that’s…refreshing,” I admit. I’d always believed life should be that way. Do it if it’s fun. If it suits you—others be damned.

My friends in high school had always assumed I was a prude. But it was just that dating, boys, relationships—all of it, just didn’t suit me at the time.

I cared very little about what they thought.

But I still want Bash to tell me he isn’t gay.

And then reading my thoughts, or my face, “I’m not gay. In case I wasn’t clear,” he adds suggestively.

Is he flirting with me? Dancers were this wonderfully odd group of people. I hadn’t yet been able to wrap my brain around their mannerisms.

I was pretty bad at telling when a regular person was flirting with me, but with dancers it was even more confusing.

When you dance with someone your bodies move together in a way that can be very sexual at times, but it’s just dancing. Like a role you play.

Sometimes that body language seemed to carry over off the dance floor because you were already comfortable existing within each other’s personal space.

It made it difficult to figure out who, if anyone, was dating on the team.

The margaritas make me blunt. “Are you flirting with me?” I ask him outright with a suggestive smile of my own.

He moves in to speak at my ear, “Maybe.” His voice tickles.

I laugh and fall away from him.

“Drink up! I want to keep dancing.” I push his drinking hand up towards his face.

“Oh, having fun, are we?”

“Yes.” I beam back.

A guy comes up behind him to say hi. Bash introduces him.

“What’s happening man? How’s that paper coming?” John asks.

They’re still talking about their class when a wave of people press us against the bar.

Some drunk sophomore had fallen over and people had moved quickly out of his way.

Just then I feel a strong arm slip around my stomach and pull me backwards away from the bar and the commotion.

The person lifts me off the ground with one arm and pulls me several feet away.

When I’m allowed to stand on my own, I turn around.

I’m face to face with Damon.

My brain only has a second to register this fact before his mouth is on me.

His tongue forces my lips wider apart, deepening the kiss. He’s kissing me in a sort of frenzy that quickly makes me moan.

He breaks away, leaving me reeling.

“You’re welcome,” is all he says.

Strange way to greet someone…

“For what, exactly?” I gasp because I’m surprised and because the exchange had taken my breath away.

His eyes are wide, serious. “For rescuing you. That mob was about to crush you against the bar,” he responds with mock horror.

“Oh right, of course, the slight discomfort of being mildly pressed against the bar would have caused me real injury.” My eyebrows draw together.

He’s wearing light jeans and a white t-shirt, he looks like a ‘90s Calvin Klein ad.

“Would. Have. Crushed you,” he says again.

His gaze is intense.

Hungry
.

His voice is low, “Let’s go somewhere.”

It isn’t a question.

His voice has a definite, immediate effect on me.

My insides clench together, my mouth waters.

It would be so easy to leave with him right now.

Then the music rises up inside my brain calling my attention back to the party.

Leaving with Damon would be fun, but I’m not ready to leave the land of margaritas and dancing.

I want more. More forgetting. More fun.

“Actually, I think I’m going to stick around and keep dancing.” I try to extract myself.

His features cool. He looks confused, like what could be more fun than what he had planned?

Which was possibly true, but for the moment I want to stay.

And then his face changes again. He looks…annoyed?

His eyes narrow. “Are you on a date?”

“Date? Who would go to a Sextet party on a date?” That would be the most chill date ever.

His voice is hard. “Well you were dancing pretty closely with that guy.” He nods in Bash’s direction.

He sounds strange.

“Yeah, so? He’s a really good dancer. It’s fun,” I shrug.

He looks uncomfortable.

Huh.

Is he jealous?

No
.

Damon Wright probably didn’t do jealous.
He belongs to a secret sex society
, for crying out loud.

He’s probably just horny and irked I am turning him down.

Ugh
. Too much thinking, I want to keep not thinking.

I am pleasantly buzzed and the music is calling to me.

I turn away. “Anyway, I’ll see you later,” I say over my shoulder.

The last glimpse of his face flashes before my eyes. He’d looked disappointed and…angry?

Whatever. No more thinking. I shake my head clear of the image.

I make my way through the thicket of people that separate me from Bash and find him craning his neck this way and that.

His eyes find me. “There you are. Sorry, I just finished talking to John when I turned around and you were gone. I didn’t mean to leave you out of the conversation. We’ve just been dealing with an epic paper in our Russian philosophy class.”

I wave it off. “No worries, I got pushed away by the crowd.”

“Enough talking, finish your drink.” He holds it out to me.

We both down what’s left in our cups.

“Allons-y.” He slips into the French for
let’s go
as we head back to the dance floor.