[sakurasan]

Chapter 18 The Gloves — Part 2

The lean man pulled Isha right into the rhythm. His gloved hand caught the small of her bare back, pressing her close as he launched into a rapid series of turns. Isha matched him stride for stride. Her hips swayed with the sharp count of the horns, her heels snapping against the polished wood.

Every turn whipped the skirt outward. The slit opened high up her left side, exposing her bare thigh under the chandeliers. Men lining the wall turned their heads to watch her legs.

Rohan watched his fiancée moving in another man’s arms. He saw the confidence in her posture, her head thrown back, her upturned dark eyes flashing with delight. The lean man was bold with his hold. When the trumpets spiked, he shifted his hand from her waist to her ribs, his fingers resting just below the swell of her breast. He spun her out to the length of his arm, then reeled her back so fast her chest brushed his lapels.

Isha felt the man’s grip at her ribs, firm against her side. The rush of wind from the spin cooled the sweat along her neck. The speed of his lead took her breath away. She had no need to guess a step; his hands directed where to throw her weight.

In the middle of the floor, the lean man planted his feet. He slid one gloved arm deep under her left thigh, right through the parted slit, and hooked her leg up onto his hip. Isha gripped his shoulder and leaned back into the hold. Her bare thigh lay along his tuxedo. The silk fell away from her hips and clung tight across her belly and breasts. He turned with her weight on that hip. She felt his glove under her thigh and the heat of his body against the inside of her leg. Her standing heel barely met the wood.




A couple near them cheered.

Rohan felt his mouth go dry, a heavy thrum settling deep in his groin as he watched the man hold her bare thigh on his hip. Turning her like that for the ballroom to see sent a jolt through his veins that made his knees feel light. She was his, yet here she was, in the center of the room for everyone to see.

The man let her leg down off his hip and swept her straight into a deep back drop. He went down on one knee, supporting her spine inches above the parquet. Isha arched over his forearm, his arm taking her weight, the silk tight across her breasts, her throat bare.

As she hung over his arm, Isha’s eyes found Rohan through the crowd.

She looked straight at him. Her face was flushed with laughter, and her gaze stayed locked on his. She did not look away. In that suspended second, with another man’s arm under her back and his chest hovering over hers, her smile was only for Rohan.

The lean man hauled her back to her feet in one fluid lift, spinning her twice before the final drum roll hit.

People along the wall clapped. The lean man kept hold of her fingers, his chest heaving, his grin showing he wanted another round.

Rohan did not wait. He crossed the floor before anyone else could move. He reached them before the applause died down and tapped the lean man’s shoulder.

The lean man turned, his brow rising as he saw Rohan. A flicker of reluctance crossed his face, his fingers releasing Isha’s glove with obvious regret. He gave Rohan a wry nod, bowed to Isha, and backed away into the crowd.

Isha let out a breath, her cheeks glowing red. She looked at Rohan, her eyes bright and laughing.

The tempo did not jump. The band eased into a slow waltz, the cello carrying a long melody.

Rohan gathered her close, his right hand settling on the bare skin at the dip of her back. Isha rested both hands against his lapels, leaning into his chest. Her body was hot through the silk, her breath warm against his jaw. They moved in an easy turn, her head resting beneath his chin. After the wild spins with the stranger, the familiar hold was steady ground.

When the last chord trailed off, she stayed against his chest for a beat.

“I am starving,” she murmured.

Rohan chuckled, pressing his chin to her hair. “Then let us eat.”

He offered his arm. Isha curled her gloved hand through his elbow, and they walked off the floor to their ringside table.

A waiter pulled her chair out. Isha sat down. Rohan took his seat across from her. They peeled off their white gloves and laid them beside the silver cutlery.

The waiter brought soup, warm bread rolls, and platters of chicken and roasted vegetables. He poured fresh wine into their glasses, set a water pitcher between them, and stepped away.

Isha was hungry. She broke a roll, dipped her spoon into the broth, and ate with relish. Under the white tablecloth, she had slipped her feet out of her heels. Her bare foot found Rohan’s shin, her toes resting warm against the skin above his sock.




Rohan took his fork and ate, watching her across the candle. The food was good, but his throat was still warm from the sight of her on the floor.

Between bites, they watched the room. Isha broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the broth. “This is much better than the college canteen,” she remarked.

“Anything is better than the canteen,” Rohan answered, taking a bite of chicken. “You like the wine?”

“It is nice. It makes the long day feel far away.” Her toes pressed against his calf, kneading the muscle under his trouser leg. “You look very handsome in that tux.”

“You are the one turning every head in the room.”

“Smooth talker,” she teased, watching him across the candle. “Eat your dinner.”

They finished their plates at an easy pace. The waiter cleared the platters and left them with the wine.

Around the arena, tables were emptying. The hotel dimmed the chandeliers, leaving amber light over the floor. The band took a slower turn. The trumpets and loud drums stopped. The pianist played long, low chords, and the violins drew out quiet notes. Couples on the floor moved closer, holding each other tight and swaying in place.

Rohan set his glass down. “Let us head up to the room,” he said.

Isha looked at the floor, then at him. “Already? The night is young.”

“It is late,” he said. “We have been on our feet since morning.”

“The wine woke me up,” she told him, her sole rubbing up the side of his knee. “I am not tired at all. I want to be back on the floor.”

“Isha.”

“It is only slow songs now, Rohan. Just one.”

She slipped into her heels and stood up. Rohan picked up their gloves. They pulled the cotton on, stepped down to the floor, and he drew her close.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, his palms pressing the bare skin at her back. Isha let her weight settle against him. She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers curling behind his collar, and rested her cheek against his throat.

With the music dragging out slow notes, Rohan took her full weight against his chest, swaying them in place. He felt the heavy warmth of her breasts flattening into his front, and the sink of her hips against his thighs with each slow pivot. The slit hung open, her bare leg resting against his trousers, almost as if he were carrying her as they swayed.

The song finished on a held chord. Rohan loosened his hold, shifting his hands to her waist to guide her toward the stairs.

“Upstairs now?” he asked.

Isha kept her arms around his neck, looking up with a teasing smile. “One more. Please. Just one.”

Rohan gave in with a soft laugh. “Just one.”

He pulled her back in. She leaned into him again, resting her forehead under his jaw while they swayed under the amber lights until the final note died away.

As they stepped back to catch their breath, a tap came on Rohan’s shoulder.

A well-built man had stepped in, offering his gloved hand. Rohan moved to give way, but Isha’s fingers tightened on his glove, holding him fast. Seeing the man wait, Rohan worked his fingers free from hers and stepped back to the wall.

Isha did not know she could refuse. With the man waiting and guests watching from the tables, she placed her hand in his. Her eyes followed Rohan to the wall. She looked at him as if he had given her away.

Rohan met her gaze and gave a small, helpless nod. He stayed where he was.

The band continued with another slow song. The man took her waist and drew her close until her front met his. Their steps were small, carrying them across the floor toward the far corner.

Isha kept her eyes locked on Rohan. She felt the man’s chest against her breasts and his glove steady at her waist. The slow steps kept her in that contact.

When a turn finally pulled her gaze toward the steps, the man looked down her neckline.

Rohan saw that look from the wall. Isha’s eyes were on the steps.

Having just carried her in his arms, Rohan knew the exact weight and warmth resting against that man's chest. He knew how soft her breasts felt pressed against a shirt, and the heat of her bare thigh against wool. He was tense and horny.

The song ended on a drawn-out note.

The man kept her pressed to his chest through the few seconds between songs, his arm across her back, her face turned toward the wall. The men along the wall saw his broad shoulders and how tight he held her. They stayed where they were.

Rohan wanted to cut in. The want made his legs feel heavy. He looked at Isha’s face for a sign. It was blank. Before he could decide, the man started moving her into the next song.

The music turned slower with her still against his chest, and he pulled her in tighter. He crushed her breasts against him. His hand moved down from her waist and gripped the top of her ass, holding her flush to his front. She felt uncomfortable the moment his hand took her there. This was her first time at a dance like this, and she did not know if she should do something about it. She stepped into the turn and brought them back across the floor, toward Rohan. On the next turn his thigh came through the open slit and pressed the inside of her bare leg, and his gloved fingers shifted onto that skin.

Rohan was close enough now that she could read his face.

From the wall, Rohan saw the man’s hand on her ass and the man’s leg between her bare thighs, the white glove against her skin. Rohan’s mouth tightened. His hands closed into fists at his sides. He took one step onto the floor to go to her. Her eyes were already on him, and she was still in the man’s arms. He stopped.

Over the man’s arm, Isha found Rohan’s face. He was clenching his jaw. For the first time, he looked possessive for her. That look made her happy, and she stopped thinking about what the other man was doing. Her eyes stayed on Rohan.



After the second song, she drew her hand back from the man’s glove.

“Thank you,” she said.

She left him in the corner of the floor and walked to the wall. She reached out, took Rohan by the wrist, and looked into his face.

“The room,” she said.