“You are doing great,” Chloe adds, sass-free this time, a rarity for her.
I appreciate the compliments, but they’re not necessary. “You don’t need to butter me up.”
“No butter here,” she says. “I mean it. Dancing is hard, and stepping on your partner’s toes is a rite of passage.”
Her dad goes thoughtful, tapping his clean-shaven chin. “Your movements are perhaps a tiny bit rigid. Instead of thinking of it as a waltz, or a swing, think about it like…partner dancing. Dancing with the person you want.”
Well, then.
I sneak a glance at Chloe, admiring the way her black top shows off her arms and offers a peek at the tops of her breasts, feeling only minimally guilty I’m checking her out in front of her dad.
“Can you do that?” he asks me.
My lips twitch as I smother a dirty grin. “I’ll give it a shot,” I say.
“Good. Posture is key. You should be relaxed yet engaged,” her dad says, then forward, backward, and side steps. I watch as he solo dances with an imaginary partner to a sophisticated jazzy standard.
This time, I don’t try to memorize the moves. I try tofeelthe dance.
“Face each other with both arms connected, a little body contact,” he instructs.
Body contact—the thing I’ve been trying desperately to avoid for the last few weeks. Body contact—the thing I want most in the world with her.
I do as instructed, placing my right hand on her left shoulder blade. There. Right there. Where she loves to be touched. A tiny tremble runs through her, and it lights me up. She drapes her left hand on my right shoulder, and that move sends a wave of heat coursing through me.
“With your left hand, hold her right,” her dad says.
I comply.
Her breath catches, and I want to kiss that sigh away. Swallow it down. Crush my lips to hers once more. Pull her close.
Dangerous thoughts. But then again, those things aren’t the same as dating. Not at all. That’s just science. A simple chemical reaction.
“You’ve got this,” her father says, and as the music builds and he drifts off to help others, I focus less on the footwork and more on the feeling. On moving in opposite directions while holding this position. On keeping my hand on her shoulder blade. On guiding her through the dance steps I hardly know, but feeling them anyway.
“Good job,” she says, her voice soft and private, just for me.
“Yeah?”
“I mean it.”
“We’ll see.”
“I do mean it, Sawyer. I have a good partner.” Gone is the usual teasing from her tone. She’s surprisingly…encouraging, and maybe that’s what I needed. What I hardly ever let myself need.
But this time, I choose to take it. “So do I,” I say, speaking from the heart too.
I’m not a natural dancer. I don’t love it. But with her body melting into mine, with her breath hitching with each sway, the hair on her arms standing on end, I might like dancing for the first time ever.
Or maybe it’s just that I like dancing withthis partner.
So much that I don’t want the music to end. Or the lesson. I’m too buzzed, too hopped up on this closeness to her. The feel of our hands linked, our bodies brushing, our goals the same.
And speaking of goals, she doesn’t want to date. She’s said that from the start. So have I. But we’ve fucked twice, and here we are. Still working together well enough. Still getting along…well enough.
Maybe I don’t need to be so rigid about certain rules.
When we’re done, she says, “See? You just got off on the wrong foot. But now you’re all about the right one.”
