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She smiles. “Algorithms and spreadsheets.”
“Really? You’re thinking about spreadsheets right now?”
“Yes. Which is why we need to dance. Well, I have to dance.” She slides out of the booth and offers her hand. “A promise I made to my mom. You can join or not.”
Who the hell could resist a promise to a dead mother? She’s too good at this. I follow her, take her hand, join her on the dance floor.
The club is a little more crowded now. A dozen singles dancing alone. A hot and heavy couple in schoolgirl outfits, grinding like they’re, well, still in high school. A man and woman in all black, making out like there’s no tomorrow.
And the two of us.
Deanna shifts into dance position immediately.
I fall into it, too. Grandma wanted me to belong in this world. She sent me to lessons. Just in case.
“Or maybe like this. Close position.” She places her hands on my waist. At first, her grip is soft. Tentative. Then she sinks into it.
She looks through me.
I need the intensity. It’s the only thing that pushes the storm clouds from my head.
She curls her fingers into the cotton fabric of my T-shirt.
I bring my hands to her hips and pull her body into mine. Her chest against my chest, her hips against my hips, her legs around mine.
She’s offset. That’s the dance description. A proper position. One where we can’t align the parts desperate to align.
For all her sharpness, Deanna is soft against me. The slim curves of her body, the slick fabric of her dress, and something deeper, some way of sinking into me.
She feels good.
When was the last time someone felt this good?
My hands dig into her hips.
We shift in time with the music, pressed together, so close to where we’re supposed to be, but so far, too.
One song flows into the next. Then the next. With the electric beat, it’s hard to tell.
She breaks our touch and turns around, so she’s pressedallthe way against me, her back against my chest, her ass against my pelvis.
My hands go to her hips reflexively.
Blood rushes south.
Conscious thought flees my brain.
My body takes over. And my body isn’t concerned with ideas of love and commitment and destiny. My body wants release, any release.
And closeness. Any closeness.
Even with the wrong person. Even with the worst person.
How can she be the worst person when she feels so right here?
I stop fighting my desire. I stop thinking of the blonde princess, the center of my fantasies.
I move with Deanna, in reality and in tune with her, with myself, with every beautiful thing in the universe.
