Page 51 of Serving Bunt

I hesitated, my pulse ratcheting up for reasons that had nothing to do with the tequila.

We had spent the past several hours dancing around each other, literally and figuratively. Well, he’d danced. I’d feigned indifference while trying—and failing—not to ogle him too obviously.

When I’d finally joined him on the dance floor, it had felt good. His radiant smile, the way his arms fit around me a little too well, a little too naturally. Close enough to feel his heat without crossing that invisible line that we’d drawn since Soren and Clarke’s wedding.

But now, with no one watching? That line felt thinner than ever.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But if I step on your toes, it’s your fault.”

I took his hand and his fingers curled around mine.

“I’m willing to risk it.”

The A/C rattled in the background like a half-hearted metronome, not that Diaz didn’t need it. He started humming again and began the basic salsa steps he’d been trying to drill into me all night.

“Did you talk to Bernice about your A/C today?”

Diaz nodded without missing a beat. “She said the earliest the repairman could come out was tomorrow. Until then . . .”

He batted his eyelashes up at me.

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse kicked up. “You can stay another night. Just . . . behave yourself.”

“What fun would that be?”

He picked up the pace and my heart rate accelerated. It was hard to know if it was because of the dance or the way our nipples brushed together.

“Okay, now forward with the left, back with the right.” Every muscle in my body seized when his hand drifted down my back, dangerously closing in on my ass. “One, two, three, hold four.”

I mirrored his movements, feeling awkward at first. My legs felt too long, too clumsy next to his fluid grace. He was like liquid sex to my uncooked spaghetti noodles.

But he didn’t seem to mind. He guided me with gentle pressure until the rhythm finally began to click.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Loosen those hips, tesoro.”

I stumbled again. Diaz laughed and the sound vibrated through his chest, close enough for me to feel it when our bodies brushed.

“Not bad for a country boy,” he said around a smile.

“You should see me line dance.”

Little did he know, I was a junior line dancing champion in the Southeastern region. None of my teammates were aware of that tidbit, and if it was up to me, they never would.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” he teased.

I nailed the next pass perfectly and Diaz whooped, spinning me under his arm like we were a couple in an old movie. I laughed loudly, the sound bubbling out unfiltered.

Fuck, it felt good to just . . . be.

With him, like this.

No cameras or teammates to see. Just the two of us, sweaty and silly in a log cabin the size of a shoebox.

Eventually, our laughter faded, replaced by a heavier silence. His thumb grazed the inside of my wrist, making my dick twitch. It was such a stupid, little move, like something out of one of my romance novels, and yet here I was, seconds away from coming in my jeans like a teenager.

The hand on my back pressed firmer, drawing me in until at last, our hips met.

Diaz’s breath hitched.