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“Give me your leg.” “Arsen, I’m wearing a dress!” “No one will see…” Then he grabs my ankle and tugs it into his lap. His hands are gentle as he undoes the straps of the Prada bear trap encasing my foot and starts to slowly caress. “Better?” he rumbles. God, yes. Much. But I can’t say that out loud. “I can’t be barefoot in here,” I protest. “I’ll take my shoes off when we’re on the way home, okay? Now is not the appropriate time.” I try to pull my leg back, but pain shoots up my hip. I can’t stop the wince in time. “You’re still in pain,” he accuses. “Nope. I’m peachy. Never better, actually. Set me loose on the dance floor, and I’ll prove it.” I try to pry my leg out of his grip; instead, his hand slips under the high slit of my dress and up my thigh. “Arsen! We’re in public.” “How does that feel?” “Like a misdemeanor.” But my indignation is overrun by the urge to sigh in relief. Arsen works strong fingers into the knot of muscles along my upper thigh and hip. “I should’ve done this hours ago.” It’s hard to disagree. Arsen missed his calling—he should’ve been a masseuse. He’s been touching me for barely a minute, if that, and already, the pain in my hip is receding. My feet have stopped throbbing. Even the pounding in my temples has dulled. Which is probably why, when he strokes his thumb along the crease of my hip, I lose all sense of where I am and moan. It’s not subtle, either. I really go for it. The sound is soul-deep and heartfelt. And “volume control” is not one of its virtues. The moment it escapes my lips, my eyes fly open. I know there are still people talking and laughing and music is still playing, but the room might as well be dead silent. “What are you doing?” I squeeze my legs together, trying to keep him out even though every fiber in my being is dying to let him continue. “People are staring.” Arsen is close enough that I can’t look away to confirm my theory. I can only hold his gaze. “Let them stare.”