“I love you.” I fade into his adoring gaze, barely holding myself together.
The moment he turns away, the tears spill over. I swipe at them, but there’s too many coming too fast. By the time he’s in the cab, my face is drenched and my vision is blurred.
As the car shrinks and disappears in the distance, I force myself to stand taller, stronger.
He’ll be home in a year.
I have a year to plan a wedding.
Most girls dream about the cake, the flowers, the dress. This girl dreams about choreographing the first dance, and it’s going to be the biggest production in the history of wedding dances.
My heart feels like a trampled, miserable pile of shit at my feet, but I have a sure way to channel the pain. For the next twelve months, Beyoncé will help me through it.
The lyrics to XO swirl through my head, and I see a crowded reception hall with Cole and me at the center. Him, holding me in his arms, rocking his sexy ass to the beat. Me, sliding through Lambada Zouk steps with flowing body waves, hair flicks, and sensual footwork. Together, we’re smiling, twirling, lost in the intimacy of our eye contact.
No one’s going to out-dance us at our own wedding.
The roar of thousands of concert-goers echoes through the dome. The lights, the music, the energy of Beyoncé’s dancers pulls me into the moment, gripping my hips like a lover’s hands and leading me through the rhythm.
I harbored doubts on my way here, sitting beside Trace in the back of his fancy sedan and squirming in the uncomfortable silence.
Spending time with him, being casual with him, pretending like he didn’t spend the prior evening with another woman—all of it twists me up and turns me inside out. But now that I’m here, I intend to enjoy the experience to its fullest.
We have the suite to ourselves, and Trace keeps his distance. Reclined in the back row of the balcony seats, he rests an ankle on a knee, a hand against his jaw, and watches me in that way he does. Intently. Unnervingly. Compulsively.
I haven’t asked about the brunette, and he’s made no attempt to explain his actions. Why would he? We’re not a couple. Are we even friends?
Standing in the front row of the closest balcony to the stage, I hold onto the railing and shake my ass to the thumping beats. Over the years, I’ve created dance routines to all of Beyoncé’s songs, and while I don’t have a lot of space to work with, I make use of every square inch.
But every time I glance back at my audience of one, it takes a few moments to catch my breath. That isn’t the look a man gives a woman he doesn’t want. His gaze trails over me like a blistering fire that melts through my skin and sizzles in my blood. It’s the kind of look that brings two bodies into complete union, a wild uncontrollable fusion of kissing, licking, and fucking.
If he were to step behind me and lift my dress, would I try to escape? Would I fight him? Withhold my desire? Or would I let him use me until we were both exhausted, limp, and satiated? Then could I let him go, to return to his women and un-messy lifestyle?
I must be falling for him, because I couldn’t live with being one of his flings in a rotation of bed partners.
So as the concert continues, I block out the heat of his gaze and dance for myself, possessed by the vocals, controlled by the rhythm, completely immersed in my element.
Until the one song I hoped Beyoncé wouldn’t sing echoes through the dome.
The song I passionately, painstakingly choreographed for a year.
For a first dance that never happened.
Her beautiful voice belts the lyrics, knocking the wind from my lungs. I teeter in the heels and recover quickly, locking my knees, grounding myself in the here and now.
I can’t dance to this. I don’t even want to hear it. But I will not break down.
Behind me, the suite is stocked with enough food and liquor to entertain twenty people. I head up the stairs, brushing a hand casually over Trace’s broad shoulder as I pass.
“Want a drink?” My smile is strained, forced. Maybe he won’t notice.
He shakes his head, squinting at me.
I keep moving, focused on the ice chest filled with beer. Rummaging through the amber bottles, I find a Bud Light and pop off the cap.
Warm fingers touch my spine, bared by the open back of my dress. “You don’t like this song?”
I hate it. I love it. I nod my head and guzzle the beer.
He lifts the bottle from my fingers and sets it aside. “What’s wrong?”
I hum a conflicted noise and set my gaze on the beer. “We can go whenever. Or stay. Whatever you want.”
“I asked you a question.” He grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his.
“It’s messy.” The tiered fringe on my ivory mini dress quivers violently, broadcasting my discomfort.
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
I ease my chin out of his grip and cross my arms. It’s a defensive posture, but I don’t feel safe with him. Not with my feelings.
He stands a foot taller than me, hands at his sides, shoulders back, and frown firmly in place. So confident, intimidating, and sexier than he has the right to be. He’s a curse, a blessing, and a second chance, like the black walls of desolation collapsing to reveal a glimpse of light. Being near him shakes me to the very roots of my soul.
He’s wearing another charcoal suit, sans the tie. A few buttons open at the neck. If I hadn’t seen his pajamas with my own eyes, I would’ve imagined him sleeping in a suit.
“Do you own a pair of jeans?” I ask.
His scowl deepens. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“All right.” I reach around him for the beer and swallow a zealous gulp to flush the knot in my throat. “Cole was overseas for a year, and I spent that time planning our wedding, specifically our first dance.”
“To this song.”
“Yep.” I lift the beer to finish it off.
He intercepts it and pours it out. Then his arm comes around me, pulling my chest against his.
“I own four pairs of jeans.” His mouth moves against the top of my head, his breath fanning my hair. “Listen.” A pause of silence. “The song’s over.”
“Yeah.” I gaze up into his soft blue eyes, my hands falling on the placket of his white shirt.
“Are there any other songs you don’t want to hear?” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
“Then we’ll stay till the end.” He leads me back to the balcony, down to the front row, and closes in behind me at the railing.
His hands rest on my hips, and his brow lowers to the back of my head. Maybe he wants to stare down the length of my nude back to watch my ass move. Maybe he simply wants to keep me close.
Either way, it takes several songs before I loosen up enough to dance again, and when I do, I limit my movements to a gentle sway, remaining right where I am. Because I love the feel of his hands on me. Because his breath on my nape gives me comfort. Because the heat of his body reminds me what it feels like to be intimate with a man.
I thought I lost my one chance to experience this—the elusive, all-consuming high that can only be found in a romantic connection.
Maybe I just needed time.