Kate takes a step my way and slaps her hand down on mine. “Fine.”
I grip her hand and ignore the fierce rush of heat that floods my body as her palm settles, light and warm on mine, her fingers’ grip hard and uncompromising. She doesn’t look it, but God, she’s strong.
I draw her close, until our bodies meet—chests, hips, lower.
Instantly, I recognize this moment for what it is: a devastating lapse in judgment.
But it’s too late, because Kate stares up at me, her face only a few inches lower than mine. Challenge dances in her eyes as she says, “Well, Petruchio, who’s leading? Me or you?”
I wrap an arm around her waist, drawing her closer. Air hitches out of her, and a rosy blush splashes across her cheeks. “I am.”
Gaze locked on mine, she pulls her hand free from my grip, then wraps her arm around my neck. Heat seeps through my clothes where her hand splays across my back, where the soft weight of her breasts presses into my chest, and her hips rest, snug against mine.
I take the first step, holding her eyes as she moves with me, again with the next slow step. When our steps quicken into a turn, her head whips in the next direction, and her leg kicks up as her hips twist with a flourish.
Christ.
I stare down at her. “?‘I’m passably familiar with it.’ Was that what you said?”
She flashes me a wide, satisfied grin, the cat who’s had its cream. “Yes.”
Recklessly, I drink in that grin, and my hand slips lower down her back as we whip into a quick turn, then take a long slow step together. My other hand tightens around her waist, to make up for the lack of her other hand for me to hold and keep her steady. That’s the only reason my palm is wide across her back, holding her hips to mine, my other hand wrapped around her ribs, my thumb sliding over the curve of her waist.
“You’re holding me rather tightly, aren’t you?” she asks. Her breathing is a little unsteady. Mine is, too.
Then again, we’re tangoing our asses off. But it doesn’t feel only like that—her body turning and twisting with mine. It’s the way we’d move if there weren’t layers of clothing and decades of dissonance between us, her breath hot on my neck as I worked her hard and slow, her cheeks flushed, her nails raking down my skin.
“Petruchio.”
I swallow, meeting her eyes, trying to cool myself down. “What?”
“I said you’re holding me tight.”
“And? Otherwise, one quick turn and you’d go flying.”
“I have my left arm hooked around you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Could you just trust me for once and not have an argument for every—Christ.”
Her heel slams on my toe. I glare down at Kate as she stares up at me serenely and says, “Oops.”
“I suggest you hold on with that all-powerful left arm of yours,” I tell her.
She frowns. “What—ack!”
It’s not the right moment for a dip, but I do it anyway, smooth and fast, leaning forward. Kate arches back reflexively in my arms and gasps.
“Jesus, Christopher,” she hisses as I draw her upright, bringing her even tighter against my body. “You could have dropped me.”
My hand tucks her hips against mine, and a swallow works down my throat. “I’d never drop you, Kate.” She doesn’t answer me, but our eyes hold, hers hot as blue flames, as we take a slow step, then another. “You don’t trust me?” I press.
On our quick turn, her knee connects with my thigh.
I groan in pain. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Take that as a ‘no, and I’m pissed at you.’ You startled me, dipping me without warning.”
“You’re right,” I tell her, a pang of guilt echoing in my chest. “I startled you on purpose, and that was wrong.”
Kate nearly trips as we slide into a slow step, her head whipping my way. “What did you just say?”
“I said I was wrong. I know it’s hard to wrap your head around,” I tell her dryly, “but I can be wrong sometimes.”
She bursts out a smoky laugh that draws a few heads. “What’s hard to wrap my head around is that you’d admit it!”
My jaw clenches. “It’s not exactly a phrase you’ve practiced, either, Katerina.” Wrenching her to me, I pick up our pace and complicate the footwork, a thrill racing down my spine as she catches on and meets me, step for step.
“Guess what, Petruchio?” she says breathily, her hand clawing into my back to anchor her to me. “I have news for you. It’s a phrase I know very well.”
“Could have fooled me,” I grunt, my grip sinking into her waist.
“Because I reserve apologies for people who deserve to hear them.” She leans in, her breath hot on my ear, her mouth a whisper away from my neck. A rush of dizzying heat burns through me. “You just aren’t one of them.”
Her heel lands on the same toe, twice as hard as last time. And then she wrenches herself out of my arms and walks away.
? SEVEN ?
Kate
I tell Bea I’m tired and heading back. I promise I’ll take a cab. I hug Sula goodbye and tell her happy birthday again, not that, based on her drunkenness, she’ll even remember. I hug Margo and let her cajole me into taking a shot with her that I needed desperately.
I walk the whole way home.
And because the brutally cold wind wasn’t enough to extinguish the aggravated heat pumping through my veins, I take a brutally cold shower, too.
I’m shivering when I get into bed, wrenching the sheets over me, and yet I’m still burning hot. I must have a fever.
Lying on my back, staring up at the dark ceiling, I count to one hundred in three different languages I’ve learned in my travels, and when I’m still wide-awake, I know I’m not ready, that I won’t be able to sleep for a while. There’s a pulse between my thighs, a fierce, nagging ache coiling through my limbs. I feel agitated and antsy.
And so goddamn unnerved.
How dare Christopher dance like that? How dare he be so good not only at the tango but also at getting so far under my skin?
Restless, I whip off the sheets and stomp into Bea’s room, flicking on her soft nightstand light. There sits Cornelius the hedgehog, doing his nocturnal hedgehog thing, snuffling around.
Sighing, I plop down beside his elaborate living space and scratch gently against the screen. “Hey.”
Cornelius perks up when he sees me, big, dark eyes and wiggly little nose. He waddles closer and sniffs my finger, then, when he realizes it’s not food, turns and waddles off.
I watch him snuffle around the tiny doughnut-print sleeping bag I made him and sent Bea in my last care package while I was gone. Reaching up, I ease open the lid and slowly lower my hand. “Want to hang for a minute?” I ask. “I bear no mealworm treats, but Mom says you can’t have too many in one day or it’s unhealthy, and we gotta do what she says.”
He makes an irritated snuffle sound.
“I know. She’s such a party pooper, making sure you have your best chance at a long, happy, hedgie life.” Gently, I bring my hand closer. He steps onto it, and I cup my other hand around him, bringing him out of his cage.
Settling back against Bea’s dresser, I savor the ticklish comfort of his paws against my palm. He peers up at me. He’s obscenely cute.
Unlike someone else. Who, with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his shirt collar still smelling vaguely of churro from a little girl he held and tickled, melding too well with the spicy warmth of his cologne, is not remotely cute. He is high-handed and pushy and very goddamn good at tangoing and holding me so tight it felt like the world could spin off its axis, straight into the universe, and I’d still be steady.
“I don’t care how Christopher dances with me,” I tell Cornelius. “Or what he thinks of me. I don’t care that he keeps staring at my messy bun and my ratty clothes.”
I’ve been telling myself for a very long time that I don’t care what Christopher thinks of me. Because if I do that, then all that time he ignored me growing up doesn’t hurt so much, his relentless disapproval of the path I’ve made for myself doesn’t sting so badly.
Most of the time, at least.