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roman
New York
“All right,let’s start from the beginning. We haven’t mamboed in months, and I have a hunch you’ve grown rusty. We step forward, then place our weight back on our right leg. Remember to feel it in your hips, Roman. Replace, then step together. We hold, then repeat. It’s just like riding a bicycle.” Summer shakes her ass for the third time and demonstrates a dance move I love to watch her perform. I’m not as inept as I pretend. I danced the mambo with mynonnaat weddings when I was a kid. That crazy old broad knew how to cut a rug and taught all six of her grandsons how to impress the ladies on the dance floor. There’s no way she could have predicted I’d fall for a competitive-level dancer, but I’ve made peace with my shortcomings.
I’m prepared to dazzle her in other ways.
“One, two, three, four, together. You start on your left, and I start on my right. Don’t forget that rocking motion with every step. We want to sway with the music, not look like a couple of robots.” She twirls to look at me and catches me lost in thought, eyes glued to the tight blue jean shorts that look like someone spray painted them on her round, voluptuous ass. Of course, I know no one would dare touch a hair on her glorious body because I know precisely what she does and where she goes every second of the day. My line of business has done wonders for my burgeoning obsession.
Her big brown eyes narrow. “You didn’t hear a word I said. Do I have something on my shorts?” She looks over her shoulder and removes imaginary dust off her ass, oblivious to her assets or too naïve to see the shameless lust in my eyes. For five months, I’ve popped into her parent’s dance studio once a week at closing time---like a religious zealot on a pilgrimage to the promised land. We made a standing appointment for private dance lessons after I made up some bullshit excuse that I needed to learn how to dance for my brother’s wedding in May.
That wasn’t a lie. My brother is marrying in two weeks. But believe me, I know how to dance. I’m Italian--- it’s in my fucking blood.
So far, we’ve covered salsa, mambo, and a little bit of Argentine tango---a personal favorite. She must be suspicious by now. How many dances does she think I need to learn to attend one damn wedding? Summer is one of the most intelligent girls I’ve ever met. Either she’s playing dumb to spare me an awkward rejection, or she doesn’t view me as a member of the opposite sex. Neither scenario is ideal, but until I figure out how to make my move without upsetting the delicate student-teacher balance I’ve unwittingly created, I think I prefer the former.
I’m not typically this slow. Once upon a time, in another life, I could smooth-talk the panties off any woman I met. Not anymore. Maybe, never again.
I’m so out of practice I’m not sure where to begin.
I’ve been putty in her hands since I set my eyes on all five feet, five inches, and one hundred ten pounds of Summer’s Latina sass. I feel like a stuttering fool every time she asks me a question or speaks my name. I don’t know if I’m coming or going, sitting or standing, or minutes from declaring my undying love.
But enough is enough. I know what I want, and there’s no way to get from point a to point b without putting my ass on the line and taking the chance that she’ll stomp on my heart. After all, I can always try again tomorrow.
I’ve decided tonight’s the night. No more excuses. No more bullshit.
“Should we try it together?” I stand in front of her and take my position, placing one hand on the sharp slope of her hip and wrapping the other around her shoulder blade.
She nods and taps the remote in her pocket to start the music. She straightens her posture, lifts her chin, and nods again, giving me the signal to begin. “Very good. Great start, Roman. You’re incredibly light on your feet. You may be my best student.”
Of course, I am. I’m here under false pretenses.
“One, two, three, four...what are you doing afterward?” I continue to count in my head, shuffling my feet and swinging my hips to the beat of the music. Summer follows my lead, tossing her hair over her shoulder and lifting our arms into a sturdier position.
She produces a tiny shrug and follows me toward the center of the room. “I’m not sure. Sunny asked to postpone girls’ night. She’s not feeling well. I still can’t believe she and Baron are having a boy. I was hoping for a girl.”
I spin her under my arm and pull her into my chest. “Why does it matter? Mama and baby are healthy---right?” I search her eyes for any hopeful signs of baby fever. She and Sunny are two peas in a pod. They’re like sisters, and sisters often want to start their families together.
She shakes her head and twirls unexpectedly, pushing herself away from my embrace. “Of course, that’s the most important thing. I only meant I was looking forward to spoiling a little girl. I had big plans for ballet lessons, frilly dresses, and tap shoes with big pink bows.” She steps to one side, crosses her feet in an unfamiliar dance move, and spins back into my waiting arms.
“I guess you’ll just have to have one of your own.” I drop my gaze and feast my hungry eyes on the smooth curve of her hips. She’s magnificent--- a buffet of sweet fertile sensuality. One look from those baby brown eyes, and I’m overcome with the same caveman yearning that always visits me whenever I hold Summer in my arms. Primal need floods my heart. Love and lust conspire against me, turning me into a speechless, catatonic fool.
“Let’s try this move again.” Summer breaks my lovesick gaze and squeaks through tight lips. She hops out of my passionate grasp and sashays across the hardwood floor. “As much as I like the extra money, I feel I’m taking advantage of you. You don’t need to keep this up anymore. I think you have more than enough expertise to impress the ladies at your brother’s wedding.” She turns to face the mirror and taps her shoes, highlighting a quick two-step change in the rhythm of the music. “Just remember, you don’t have to stick to the rules. You can have some fun with the beat.”
I take her words as a sign from above. I don’t need to stick to the rules of engagement. Yes, we’ve been friends. Yes, I’m far too old for her young, sassy behind. But a man can only take so much deprivation and self-torture before he’s driven to the edge of reason. The worst she can do is say no.
“Speaking of fun, why don’t we grab dinner after class? We’re headed in the same direction and need to eat.” I take my shot and pray it comes out as smooth as I hear it in my head. Every Thursday night, we go our separate ways back into Manhattan, and it’s silly when we live four blocks apart. I should have put my foot down long ago or lingered outside until she was ready. It’s my fault for not wanting to come off like the stalker I know I am.
Summer’s ears perk, and her eyes grow twice their size---no small feat with peepers as big as hers. Her pouty lips part, but whatever word she has in store stalls before they reach her tongue.
Panic grips my heart. Before she thinks of a thousand reasons to turn me down, I swoop in beside her and continue our dance. “A buddy of mine has a new restaurant just off Mulberry. It’s a total tourist trap, but he keeps begging me to stop by. You know how friends can be. We pop in, share a family-size plate of lasagna, and if you play your cards right, maybe I’ll buy you some gelato.” I spin her right, then left, twirling madly to the beat of the drums and slamming her hard into my chest. I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but I can’t stop this momentum.
“How about it? Are you hungry?” I hold her delicate, trembling body against mine and wait for her to turn me down. I’m not expecting my tired moves to work this first time, but I’d like her to know my intentions. Yes, they’re honorable, but they’re also nasty. I’m not a man who believes you can’t have both.
“Hungry?” She tenses but makes no move to wiggle out of my grasp. I circle my arm around her waist and pull her closer. “Surely, you like Italian food?”
She nods once and flutters her lashes with a hint of indecision. “Of course, I do. I grew up in Brooklyn. But most of those places in Little Italy aren’t as good as the ones around here.”
I lead us forward, stepping together, breaking right, and left, rocking her tight little body in a drag-around twirl that makes her laugh out loud and nearly stumble out of place. We mambo to the waning beat of the music and land inches from the front desk, exactly where I want her to be.
“Shall we go?” I’m persistent and probably a little obnoxious, but I know her well. If she doesn’t want to go, she has no problem looking me straight in the eye and telling me to go directly to hell. It’s one of the many things I love about this girl. There is something irresistible about the way she fights me. My doll knows her worth. If I want her, I’ll need to do something bold. She deserves a grand romantic gesture.
She deserves the world.
“So help me, Jesus. If that place isn’t flipping fantastic, I’ll make you cook me an authentic Italian dinner.” She sinks her adorable rabbit teeth into her puffy bottom lip and smiles.
With one toothy grin, my heart bursts clean out of my sternum and splatters all over the silky white tank top I’ve wanted to shimmy off her shoulders since I arrived. I’m a goner. There’s no escaping destiny. One way or another, I need to see this to its natural conclusion and make her mine.
Mark my words--- I’m going to wear this girl down, make her love me, and drag her beautiful ass down the aisle.
Or die trying.
