“I did.”
“All day.”
“Seemed like the thing to do.”
“Most people would have left after the pipes were fixed.”
He tilts his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not most people.”
“No.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “You’re not.”
Something shifts in the air between us. The playful energy that usually surrounds him sharpens into something more focused, more intent. His eyes, dark in the fading light, fix on mine withan intensity that makes my breath catch and I see the red sparks in their depths.
“Isadora.”
“Yes?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I’m aware.”
“Any particular reason?”
Because you spent twelve hours handling my disaster like it was your own. Because you danced with a shy little boy and made him feel special. Because you’re standing here, still, when you could have left hours ago. Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you again.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I close the distance between us. It’s only two steps—two small steps that feel like crossing an ocean—and then I’m right in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough to see the slight widening of his eyes as he realizes what I’m about to do.
“Isadora—”
I kiss him. It’s not like the first time, that explosive collision of heat and frustration in my kitchen. This is slow and deliberate. I rise up on my toes, thread my fingers through his hair, and press my lips to his with everything I’ve been feeling all day.
Thank you. I want you. Stay.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer, and he’s kissing me back with a hunger that steals the breath from my lungs. His mouth is warm and demanding, coaxing my lips apart, and when his tongue slidesagainst mine I make a sound I’ve never heard myself make before—something raw and desperate that should embarrass me but doesn’t. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I want him to leave marks. I want evidence of this moment, proof that it’s real.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathes against my lips.
“No.”
“Isadora—”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He makes a low, rough sound that vibrates through his chest and into mine, and then he’s walking me backward and my back hits the mirrored wall with enough force to rattle the barre. The glass is cold through my thin shirt, but his body is furnace-hot against my front. The contrast makes me gasp, and he swallows the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, more demanding.
His hands slide up my sides, mapping the curve of my waist, the indent of my ribs. When his thumbs brush the underside of my breasts, I arch into him instinctively, and he makes that sound again—that groan that feels like it’s being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against the corner of my mouth, “how much I’ve wanted to do this.”
I laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical. “Me too.”
His teeth graze the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“That’s cheating,” I manage.
“Is it?” Another kiss, this one right over my pulse point. “I thought all was fair in love and dance.”
Love.
