Page 49 of Beast

Being back on the range today rattled me. I loved shooting—I’d been a rifle coach, had dreamed of being a sniper. The power, the rush, the thrill. It was completely addicting.

But these days, the sound of gunfire brought me back to Iraq. When I’d been over there, it wasn’t about the politics, it wasn’t about the war, it was about protecting my brothers. One goal, getting them out of there alive.

I focused on why I loved shooting: the precision, the power, the skill. I refused to allow myself to think of the men I’d killed in combat, refused to picture their faces, and the way their bodies slumped when they hit the ground.

There were some things I’d done that I would never tell Isa.

It was bad enough that I looked like a monster, she would never love me if she knew I was also a killer.

When we returned to the cabin, we relaxed for a bit. After an hour Isa came over to the sofa and sat on my lap. “I’m going to just teach you some fundamentals of dancing. Nothing too intense today.”

I grimaced, but I refused to go back on my word. My dance knowledge consisted of doing joke moves to make my Marines laugh—lawn mower, the fishing pole, the hammer. But once I committed to something, I put in one hundred and ten percent. “Sounds good.”

“Okay, I’m going to run upstairs and change really quickly. Luckily, you bought me dancing shoes.”

Yeah, what a stroke of luck. I’d just wanted to see her dance, not to have to dance myself.

I made a fresh pot of coffee and waited for her.

Five minutes later, she walked down the stairs and I almost dropped the coffee pot. She wore a loose purple shirt that had a strappy sports bra sewn in and multicolored yoga pants that seemed painted on her curvy ass. Instead of tennis shoes, her feet were strapped in the sexy little dance heels.

We cleared the living room so we could use it as a dance floor, and she turned on Sam Smith from her iPhone. The song was soothing and melodic, definitely not like my usual listening choice of heavy metal.

“So, we’re going to start with the basics—rumba walks. They’re also used in cha-cha and bolero. Keep your toes on the floor, chest up, straight back, and push off of your standing leg.”

Her hand adjusted my hip and all I could think about was having her hand drop lower to my cock.

“Good. Okay, that’s a good start. Keep your legs straight, when you bring your right leg to your left, settle your hip, and then stick your right leg forward and transfer your weight.”

Fuck, this was hard, though she made it look easy. Her hips seemed to be flowing back and forth, as if they were making love to the floor. I was used to drill—precise steps with my feet, syncopated with my fellow Marines.

She taught me a basic rumba, a dance of unrequited love, and a bit of the foxtrot, a dance of happily-ever-afters. Isa had drilled me with the steps, feet on the floor, shoulders down, chest and chin up.

After an hour of me following her around the floor like a lovesick puppy, I’d had enough, but I wasn’t about to quit. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of my fellow Marines who would no doubt be egging me on.

“So, I think you have the moves down. But you’re still missing something.”

“What?”

“We’re going to work on our connection in the dance. Our dancing depends on our ability to get our audience to feel our spark.”

I thought I had it down, but she was right. There was still something I was missing.

Emotion.

Intimacy.

I had to feel something, something toward Isa, something toward the dance. She’d told me she loved me. Did I love her? I craved her, I was addicted to her, I wanted her to be mine. But I was comfortably numb. I had been disconnected for so long, I didn’t have a clue how to bond.

She moved her body into my space. “We’re going to start with a game. In dance, the man is always in control.”

I liked this more and more. “Keep talking.”

“I need you to lead me, take charge, own me.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. “Fuck, baby, if I knew dancing was this hot, I would’ve started years ago.”

She gave me a playful glance, untied her hair, which was wrapped up in one of those weird scarfs, and handed the silky fabric to me. “Here, blindfold me.”