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Teddy huffs a laugh. “We’re not having sex in the bathroom of a steakhouse.”
“But Daddy,” I tease.
The look Teddy gives me has me snapping my mouth shut. “There’ll be plenty of time, sweetheart. It can wait until we’re home.”
And fuck. That kind of warms me through.
“So mean,” I mutter affectionately.
Teddy’s smile feels a little bit like the smell of his body wash on his skin. Warm and full of contentment.
Plenty of time, huh? I like the sound of that.
Chapter 25
Teddy
Talking to Kipp at dinner didn’t go quite like I had planned. First, he hoofed it away from the table while I was in the middle of explaining to him what these past several weeks have meant to me—a fact that had me thinking the worst until he returned. And then we were talking about blowjobs, of all things, and I couldn’t get the moment back.
Now, we’re walking side by side toward my car that’s parked a couple blocks away, and Kipp is telling me about the blue incident he had at work. Hearing him describe his day in such vivid detail, hands flying and eyes bright, has a smile on my face.
When he suddenly stops walking, I nearly trip, having been watching him and not where I was going.
“What’s that?” Kipp asks, pointing across the street.
I follow his line of sight to a lit-up club. The outside is painted red, the exterior classy but mysterious in a way that leaves you assuming you could be looking at anything from a bar to a brothel. However, I know exactly what’s inside, having been there a handful of times before.
“It’s a salsa club,” I tell Kipp.
He looks at me with wide eyes. “No shit? And how do you know that?”
I shrug. “I know how to salsa.”
He stares at me for a solid three seconds before grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the crosswalk.
Oh Lord.
“We’re going in,” Kipp declares, not asking my opinion on the matter. “I’m gonna see my goddamn husband goddamn salsa, Teddy, and don’t you dare think about depriving me of that honor.”
I huff a laugh as Kipp smashes the button for the crosswalk. As soon as the light turns green, he tugs me across the street.
“Salsa,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Fucking hot. Can you roll up your sleeves?”
“My sleeves?” I ask.
Kipp’s eyes trail down my arms for a moment before he focuses on reaching the front of the club. “Everyone knows forearms are prime ogling material, and if I can’t see your dick, then I’m going to need you to roll up those sleeves. Preferably slowly and while you’re dancing.”
“So, basically, you want me to do a forearm striptease for you?”
“Bingo,” he says.
I keep my amusement to myself as Kipp drags me inside the building. It looks the same as I remember, even though I haven’t been inside in over five years. Red lights aimed at the walls give the club a sensual vibe that’s instantly matched by the lively, rhythmic beat of the music. The majority of the space is devoted to the dance floor, but high-top tables sit interspersed around the edges of the room, and a bar occupies one wall. Kipp stares wide-eyed for all of a second before tugging me forward.
Kipp might not know how to salsa, but the man has never had an ounce of shame when it comes to dancing. He stops right in the middle of the dance floor and spins my way, beckoning me closer. With the music pumping through my veins and Kipp’s smile lighting me on fire, I step forward, rolling my shirtsleeve as I go. Kipp grabs his chest, feigning a swoon as I reveal my forearm. I do the other, and he fans his face. When I reach out a hand, he takes it without hesitation, and I tug him into my arms.
Kipp’s grin is blinding as my hand settles at his waist, my other holding his tight. Partners maintain some space here on the dance floor, unlike at a typical club, so I have room to maneuver Kipp as a Marc Anthony song suffuses the room. His eyes go wide when I roll my hips, guiding him with my hand to do the same. He mouths, “Holy shit,” but follows along, picking up the gist of it quickly enough. We move in a circle as we dance, and when I let go of Kipp’s waist to spin him out, he laughs loud enough to be heard over the music. I tug him back in, and he collides with my chest, our gazes connecting, both of us stilling. But then Kipp’s smile is sweeping back over his face, and he’s on the move again, his body flowing effortlessly with the music.
I don’t know how long we dance for. Song after song, we stay out on that salsa floor, Kipp picking up more and more steps as we go. He’s a natural, and when he copies the woman next to us and shimmies his chest, I can’t help but bust out laughing. He winks, the cheeky man.
