Page 31 of To Tango, with Desire

“Someone did their research.”

I did my best not to blush. I hadn’t known Zane was insanely wealthy when we’d met. I’d assumed from the cut of his suits that he was comfortable, a businessman used to traveling in style. But it wasn't until that night we’d slept together, when he’d pulled up in his Maybach Exelero and taken me to his mansion, that I had truly understood how rich. Naturally, I’d googled him. Only for a minute. Just to take a peek.

But it had only taken that minute for me to see the man was worth mega bucks.

Everything about Zane’s life was opposite to mine. I didn’t fit into his world.

“We’re also both from similar backgrounds. My mom is Persian, so I can only claim to be half Lebanese.” Zane approached me slowly now, his expression playful and yet serious. “We were both born here, from migrant parents who worked hard to give us a good life.”

“How did you—”

He took me in his arms, swaying gently.

“We both dance tango. The very thing that brought us together.”

“Zane,” I warned, unable to stop myself from following his lead. He displaced my foot, his thigh wedging between my legs. I wanted to feel the friction of his body against mine, to rub against him like a stray cat in heat. I shifted, brushing my foot against his calf before stepping back into his arms.

“We both like chocolate-covered strawberries.”

I bit my lip, remembering that night, the way he’d touched me, the way he’d teased.

I ached now, to feel him heavy and hard inside me. He’d given me what I’d wanted, an experience like no other. It had been romantic and passionate, everything a first time should be.

The solid warmth of his chest brushing against my breasts made me shiver. Heart pounding, I looked up and was shocked to see raw desire staring back at me.

“You forget a major difference, Zane,” I pointed out, my voice unsteady.

“What’s that?” he murmured. His mouth hovered close to mine, and I could see the dark, swirling depths of his eyes, bright and intent on one thing only.

Me.

I fought against the urge to close the gap between us, to lose myself in him, letting go of rules and restrictions just as I had that night.

I reminded myself that he’d left. If he’d wanted me, if he’d wanted more, he would have made contact.

“Amira.” He stopped swaying, his hands gripping my hips.

“Hmm?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You were about to mention one major difference?”

I frowned, replaying the last minute of our conversation. “Our age.”

“What of it?”

“You’re forty. I’m twenty-five.”

“Nearly twenty-six.”

“You’re nearly forty-one.”

“I remember a smart woman not too long ago declaring that age is just a number.”

“That was then.”

“Has that much changed in six months?”

“It may as well be six years.”