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One thing wasn’t going as smoothly. Though at first his dancing and singing had her smiling, that smile died away as she saw that enthusiasm reveal itself for what it was—a mounting frustration with the silence in his head.
“Do you love me?” he snarled, Motown suddenly delivered with the force of Steven Tyler screeching “Walk this Way.” The words slammed against the bay walls and bounced back as Tiger’s dance steps became a warrior stomping, front step, back step. Then he jerked to a halt, lifting and slamming the mop down like he wanted to spear the concrete.
“Goddamn it. Can’t hear it. Can’t hear it.” He shook his head, a snap. “Shut the fuck up. Quit it.”
He resumed pushing the mop, only this time it was with grim determination, and no music. No dancing.
That wouldn’t do. She went to a work bench where a mounted set of speakers and a dangling connector rested on an upper shelf fortunately within her reach. Since the speakers weren’t scorched, she assumed they still worked.
His head came up, turning toward her as she caught his attention. She tossed him a look over her shoulder, did a little spin, and lifted a palm, a quelling movement before he felt the need to say anything about his dancing and singing, or what had come after.
She plugged her phone into the speakers, then found the song she wanted. When she pressed play, she confirmed the speakers worked, just as well as she needed them to.
Turning around, she found him leaning on the mop, watching her with a mixed expression. He seemed cautiously glad to see her, though still gripped by the strength of the emotions he’d expressed before he saw her. And those were integrated with some discomfiture that she might have seen his outburst.
When she beckoned, he set the mop aside, crossing the room to join her at the speakers. He was a pleasure to watch walking, even with the conflicted expression. She touched his face, the light caress evoking a faint smile from him. He wanted to kiss her, badly enough she could feel the desire for it on her own lips. She suspected his decision not to try it had more to do with what was churning in his head than seeking her permission.
She adjusted the bass on the speakers, then took his large hand and placed it over one of them. Her toe was already tapping, hips swaying from the heavy beat of “Shut Up and Dance” by Walk the Moon. She’d propped her phone on the shelf so he could see the upper screen was displaying the lyrics, the lower flashing with the beat.
His lips tugged. Some of what she’d first glimpsed when he was dancing returned. When she arched an expectant brow and glanced at the open floor, he gave her an actual smile. He took her hand and drew her into that space, guiding her into a turn under his arm, a curl back against his chest and then out again.
She showed she could keep up with him on the twists and twirls. If he had balance issues, he was able to correct them using her grip and the press of her body. In return, he supported her when she moved out and back, their hands on each other as he brought her to him again.
He knew the song well enough that he stayed with the beat when they turned away from the phone. They crossed the non-wet part of the floor together, face-to-face, releasing one set of hands to walk side by side, then returning to both clasped together before he spun her again. His hard waist passed under her touch, his on her hip. He was voicing pieces of the words, a quiet current under the waves of lyrics.
This woman is my destiny…
Her stomach did a flip. She answered him with a half-smile and mouthed the answering line. “Shut up and dance with me.”
His wicked grin as he picked up the words, the thump of the music, the movements of his body, the mood and potential, prompted her to change the choreography.
She put a hand on his chest, taking him to the wall, making sure he felt the impact of her intent. She bade him stay and retrieved the mop. The dramatic twirl she did with it gave that grin a matching twinkle in his eyes. A more serious heat took over as she threaded the handle behind him, under his arms. He followed her cue to lift his hands and grip it. She tapped the wall, pointed to him.
Stay against the wall as if I chained you there.
That last part was what she wanted to say to him, but he understood the self-restraint part, so she left it at that.
“I wish I’d kissed you when you got here,” he said.
Her fingertips drifted over the impressively bunched biceps. A submissive male, one with arms like this and a burning gaze like that, who understood her language, what she was feeling, was suddenly better than a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She was ready to slide right into the riches he had to offer.
Rising on her toes, she kissed the hell out of him, devouring the mouth that had belted out those lyrics. If she had known he could kiss like this, she wouldn’t have denied herself during all those sessions.
But would a kiss then have had the same power? Had the current circumstances given it a quality that maybe hadn’t existed before? A kiss was connected to feelings, after all, which, when growing and changing, could increase its potency.
Regardless, that potency was undeniable. He made a sound against her mouth, a growling vibration she felt in the sweep of his tongue, the caressing pressure of his lips. He wanted more, even as he stayed in the position she’d dictated. She’d sate herself first. He’d expect nothing less.
While he exercised that self-discipline, she’d perversely test the limits of it. She pushed up his T-shirt and spread her hands over him, enjoying the tough body of a man who pushed himself.
“He's crazy strong,” Maryshka had told her. “Once, we found these kittens in an old drainpipe. There was a really heavy grate over it that had been concreted into place. Tiger busted it free with a hammer, then lifted it straight out. Red said when he tried to lift it on his own, he couldn’t do it. Tiger tossed it aside like it was nothing.”
It had stuck with Skye, the idea of those strong hands pulling the grate loose and tossing it aside one moment, then cradling a frightened kitten in the next. Pure gold for a woman’s heart, those kinds of images. Enough to make her laugh at herself.
She still thought about it.
She put her mouth on his chest, over a nipple, scraping with teeth. She licked over the tattoo, nipping at the animals, tracing the curved blooms of the tropical flowers. A gentle touch of her tongue to the fresh scar over the elephant. Her hands skated down to his waistband, slipped the button of his jeans. A slow slide beneath heated fabric let her find him, stretch him out, stroke.
She heard his oath of reaction. She would use their surroundings even further, give him even more reason to get this place cleaned up, see beyond what had happened here and bring it back to what it had been. With a few new memories to inspire that effort.
