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“Fuck, sorry,” I mumble, trying to lift my hand up to remove my blindfold.
Whoever it is prevents me by sliding their hands down my arms and pressing my wrists against my hip. I can feel their body flat against mine, all hard muscle and height. Definitely a guy then. Cool minty breath flutters over my cheek as I turn my head to the side, tipping my head back slightly. The top of my head, brushes something hard… his chin perhaps?
“You should let me go,” I warn, because this is creepy as fuck and I’m not unskilled in fighting off predators. I might be small, but I’m scrappy. I’ve learnt the hard way.
He releases my left hand, cupping it briefly before using his finger to write the wordnoacross my palm. I snatch my hand away, reaching for my bandana, but he grabs my forearm, lets my other hand go and flips me around to face him. Grasping both my wrists with one hand, he presses the other into my lower back and pulls me flush against him.
“You think I won’t fight back?” I growl, shaking with anger. It’s my first fucking day and already some arsehole is trying to molest me.
“Dance,” the stranger grunts, his fingers flexing on my lower back. My skin pricks, but not in the way I expect. It’s as though my body recognises the person before I’m even able to figure out who it is.
The voice is muffled, hoarse but there’s something in it that makes me pause. It’s familiar, and yet it isn’t. I don’t knee him in the balls. I remain still, my heart a caged animal in my chest. Willing myself to calm down, I realise that whoever this is, they won’t have much time to do any harm given how long I’ve been dancing. The other students will be here soon anyway.
“I’m not a puppet. I don’t dance on command.”
“Dance with me!” he growls. There’s something in his tone that has an edge of desperation to it. Like whoever the fuck this is needs this moment more than oxygen.
Desperate to touch me, hold me, dance with me.
Me.
My stomach churns because deep down I know that it must be one of the Breakers, there’s no other explanation. I should push him away, but I don’t. Curiosity and a desperate need to feel wanted again overrides every other emotion. “Okay,” I whisper in agreement, needing to know who it is.
If I could feel with my hands, I’d be able to get a better mental image, but it’s difficult to tell just by his body pressed against mine. From his height and width it could be any one of them. His voice is different too, purposely so and the peppermint smell from his mint is overpowering any scent that might be familiar. The only way to know for sure is to do as he asks, and dance.
Work Song is still playing on a loop and I tip my head back slightly, waiting for him to take the lead. Still grasping both my wrists in one large hand, I’m lowered slowly backwards, my torso bending in an arch as his other hand supports my lower back. For a beat, I’m held in his arms. He could let me go, and I’d fall flat on my arse. He doesn’t. I lean into the hold, dropping my head back and arching my neck, trusting him in the moment. I’m rewarded when he frees my hands as he folds over me, supporting my back. His breath is warm against the slick skin of my upper chest. As he guides me back up, I automatically reach out, grasping hold of his shoulders to steady myself, my heart hiccups at the touch, at the prickle of my skin and that very real need to fall into his hold.
“Why?” I ask. How can a single word have so many layers, and so many answers?
Of course he doesn’t reply, instead he steps into me, his left leg moving to the outside of my right. His inner thigh brushing against my outer thigh. The air vibrates with tension, mine, his. He’s not relaxed any more than I am. It’s like we’re both holding our breaths. One false move and this tentative truce is over. All I know is that this kind of dance rules out York and Zayn. Neither were interested in dancing intimately like this, not that they weren’t intimate, because they were, just in different ways.
This has to be either Xeno or Dax, but that doesn’t make sense. Why would either of them be here? I could reach up and remove my bandana to know for sure, but something stops me. Perhaps it’s the way his other leg slides between mine, the thickness of his thigh pressing against my core and taking my breath away, or perhaps it’s my need to reconnect with a memory of my past. Either way, I remain blind.
Gently, achingly slowly, he bends his knees and locks my thigh between his, swaying his hips from side to side, encouraging me to do the same. The movement is sensual, sexual, and full of promises I don’t understand. I can’t help but follow his lead, the dancer in me catching on before I can even comprehend what’s happening. Something inside begins to uncurl as strong hands smooth up the sides of my torso, the top of his arms lifting up mine so that they’re locked in place, horizontal to my shoulders, my fingers still gripping onto him. When the flat of his hand slides around my back, a single thumb pressing into my spine possessively, I know immediately who I’m dancing with.
This isbachata.
“Xeno?” I whisper.
