I tiptoe away, hating how clinical and unfeeling his words sound. But I get it. He isn’t trying to evoke arousal. He wants to make sure Cole doesn’t cross any of the boundaries he’s very clearly spelling out.
In the dance studio, I slip into the dressing room and change into spandex shorts and a halter top. After a thorough stretch routine, I move to the stereo and spend an eternity scrolling through the endless list of songs. Too happy. Too slow. Not enough attitude. Wrong mood. Then a song I’ve never danced to rolls by, and I pause on it.
Back to Black by Amy Winehouse. Beyoncé covered this song, but that’s not why it resonates with me. It’s about a twisted love triangle, somewhat downtrodden, but full of grit and spirit. I push play and pace to the center of the room.
The piano riff kicks off with an arrangement of drums, tambourine, and loads of reverb. As the nasally vocals echo in the room, the melody sifts through my ears and finds its way directly to the heart of me.
My spine elongates. My core tightens. My blood hums.
And I begin to dance.
Aside from eating, sleeping, and showering, I haven’t stopped dancing for four days. My muscles are brutally sore. Blisters cover the soles of my feet, and I’m pretty sure I pulled a hamstring. But my God, I found my groove again.
I haven’t even thought about choreography or footwork. I don’t have to create belly dance routines for a job or practice for an upcoming performance. I’m simply dancing for the sake of moving to music I love.
I feel liberated. Meditative. Entranced.
It’s like driving a car to a destination I’ve gone to a thousand times. I don’t have to think about where to turn or when to shift, because I know how to get there and what to do. My subconscious takes over, freeing up my conscious mind to entertain things, such as contemplating the curves of Trace’s scowl, anticipating the next appearance of Cole’s dimples, and deciding which mouth I want to lick more.
As I dance deep in thought, there are no distractions. No responsibilities. Just the music and the movements and this fluid hypnotic state where I burrow in, dig deeper, down to my foundation, to the very essence of me. And that’s where I look for him. The one. The choice. The marrow of my soul.
Sometimes, I think I see him.
I think I know.
But he’s shrouded by doubts and denials and…fear, because holy fuck, I’m scared. I torture myself by imagining the abhorrent moment when I rip out part of my heart and hand it back to the man who gave it to me.
So I keep dancing, changing up the songs and styles to fit my moods. Today, it’s hip-hop. Laid back and playful, sexy and soulful, the electronic beats make it impossible to sit still.
As Wait by Ying Yang Twins streams through the speakers, I face the wall of windows, my cheeks warm from exertion and the glow of the midday sun.
Boom-ba-snap-boom. Boom. Snap. I jerk my hips. Boom-ba-snap-boom. Boom. Snap. My body writhes, punctuating the kick drum with sharp thrusts.
I feel the pattern, the accent of sound, the pulsing vibes. The energy owns me as I plant my feet wide and shake it for all I’m worth. My hands slide over my body. My shoulders roll, and my hair swings around me. I pop my hips and bend my knees, taking it down, low to the floor. My abs undulate. My ass flexes. And I pause.
I sense him before I spot his reflection in the window.
Rising to my full height, I turn around.
“Don’t stop.” Cole prowls toward me, barefoot, shirtless, the fly of his jeans left unbuttoned, and his hair a damp, sexy mess.
“Did you just get out of the shower?” I sway my hips, slow and steady beneath his perusal.
“Yep.” He circles me, his hooded gaze touching every inch of my body, from my flirty smile and sports bra to my tiny dance shorts and bare legs. “I went for a run.”
He and Trace run every day, making use of the trails on the wooded property. Sometimes, they run together.
I glance at the closed door. This is the first time one of them stepped in here since the day they punished me.
Cole follows my gaze. “Trace is holed up in the office on work calls all day.”
“He said you would be dividing up your time with me. Is that what this is?”
“Yes. I wanted you to have a few days to yourself.” He looks around the studio with pride in his eyes. “How’s the space working out?”
“I love it, Cole.” A gushy grin lifts my cheeks. “I don’t ever want to leave.”
“I like the sound of that.”
The song ends, and the recognizable beats of Yeah by Usher pumps through the room. Seized by the tempo, I move on instinct. Hips, torso, arms—my body knows the catchy rhythm and loves it.
An impish smile steals over Cole’s mouth.
I step backward, bouncing and swinging my arms overhead. “What?”
“I’m going to smack that.”
“This?” I slide a hand over my rear as I dip to the floor and slide back up.
“Yeah.”
“Come get me.” I reverse through the room, jumping to the electronic beats and popping my movements.
He chases, his expression so intensely hungry it makes me feel giddy, alive, and wildly turned on. When he catches me by the windows, he spins me toward the ballet bar. Then he moves in, syncs our hips, and grinds with the music.
His bare chest burns against my back, his mouth hot on my neck, and his hands roam everywhere. Bodies pressed tightly together, we move as one, rocking, grabbing, and panting. It’s the sound of our breaths that really gets me going. His is labored and shallow, telling me he wants me as badly as I want him.
Perspiration slicks his skin as his chiseled physique bunches and plays around me. He’s hard, so damn long and swollen pressed against me, and I can’t stop thinking about that unfastened button. And the zipper that needs tugging. And the underwear I know he’s not wearing.
His body is made for sex, and he dances like he’s mating. Hips thrusting, hands squeezing flesh, he leads, and I follow. He pulls, and I give. Then I break away, spinning around him in teasing circles.
He watches me like a predator, his eyes drunk on desire, and his kiss-shaped mouth beckoning me. Utterly possessed by him, I drift closer with fire in my belly. He snatches me by the waist, aligns our bodies chest to chest, and rolls our hips. Then he crushes his mouth against mine.
We kiss for a moment that carries on forever, in an airless space, dancing as one body, skin sliding, limbs entangled, and hearts wild.
God, I love his lips. Our story was born there, on his dimpled smile. Every kiss we share validates what we knew the day we met. He’s my first love as I am his. We’re a constellation of fate, love spiraling to death to lies to love, and despite it all, we continue to spin with stars in our eyes.
We dance through several songs, kissing and grinding until my lungs burn and my mouth goes numb. I feel like more than flesh and bone when I’m in his arms, like I’m one half of something momentous. Like I’m an elemental part of something so rare and untouchable only a few people in the world ever experience it.
“I want to learn the dance you choreographed.” He nuzzles my neck and spans his hands over my backside.
“Which dance?”
“The one I should’ve learned four years ago.”