I never heard the rest of Tristan's sentence—what he didn’t want me to think. The handsome guy thought I’d nodded to him and had me by the hand, stumbling over his own feet as he dragged me to the dance area. As soon as we stepped onto the sunken floor, his hands were on my hips, pulling me close to him. For a brief moment, I forgot about all the mind signatures, the twirling lights and pounding music and could only think about how strange it was to be that close to a man other than Tristan.
But only for a brief moment. Before I could even do anything, a growl ripped through the music—or maybe just through my head—and Tristan was suddenly between the guy and me, his back to me and his arms out protectively. The drunk guy swung without even looking, and Tristan caught his wrist in mid-air. With the pain of the grip, the guy finally looked up into Tristan’s face. His eyes grew wide and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. He gave me an apologetic frown as he carefully stepped away from the dance floor.
Tristan turned back to me and wrapped his hands around my waist, pulling me to him as he swayed to the music. I looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“You can talk to girls all night but I can’t dance once?”
His nostrils flared. “There’s a difference. His hands were all over you.”
“I had things under control.”
He leaned closer to me and growled in my ear. “I didn’t like it!”