I close my eyes and let the music take over my body, like it always does. When I’m happy or sad or mad, anything, music is what I seek. I relate life to lyrics, tone to mood.
The beat can wake me or break me down, the words can lift me or leave me a soppy mess. A lot of people avoid songs that make them remember pain when they’re drowning in it, but I say let that sucker take you under. When people feel good, they tend to blast some bubbly music that makes them dance around, so if you’ll dance when you feel like dancing, why not have a good cry when you need one?
I need music like my twin needs football; it’s in our souls, and right now, my soul is feeling sultry.
It’s not long before a blond guy makes his way through the crowd and begins to slink his way closer. I smile, giving him the okay, so he slides right in, and we begin to dance. In my peripheral, I notice Chase and Mason dancing with some girls only a few feet away. I have no doubt it’s purposeful, their way of keeping an eye on us girls, but to give them credit, they don’t interrupt.
Probably because we keep our partners a shuffle away. A few songs later, Chris Brown’s “Loyal” comes on, and Cam squeals beside me.
I throw my hands in the air again, ditching my partner for my best friend, and we sing along like a couple of drunk girls at a karaoke bar, loud and out of tune.
Cam jerks her chin in the direction of our boys, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
We make our way to the boys, just in time to sing along with the chorus, sending each other into another fit of laughter.
“Cute, girls.” Mason laughs, stepping away from the scowling redhead. “Real, cute.”
Cameron grins, fanning herself. “I need a water and another drink!”
Mason glances around, assumingly in search of Brady, and then throws his arm over Cameron’s shoulder. “I’ll take her!” he shouts, pulling her toward the bar, but not before he points at me, his eyes on Chase. “Stay with her.”
They walk away and I face Chase, dramatically shimmying my shoulders around and he chuckles, shaking his head, but he doesn’t accept the invitation, so I dance without him.
My eyes close and I fall into the music, and about a half song later, the heat of Chase’s nearness washes over me. It takes a serious amount of effort, but I don’t open my eyes, not yet. I wait, continuing to sway to the music, and finally, he moves a little closer. My senses are flooded with his clean, sandalwood scent, and my eyes fly open, locking onto his bloodshot gaze.
His movements are a little loose from the liquor, but he keeps up, and when I brace my hands on his shoulders, bringing myself in a little more, he allows it.
“Well, look at that,” I tease. “We’re almost dancing.”
A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth, and I suck in a deep breath when his free hand falls to my hip. “You’re brave for wearing this thing.” He tugs at the stretchy fabric.
“Do you like it?”
He frowns and a low laugh leaves me, but I don’t say anything else, the heat of his hand frying my brain. It’s all I can think about.
His hands on me.
With each passing second, my fantasies pull me deeper, my heartbeat growing erratic.
Moving with his body brushing mine, serves as an accelerator, pumping my blood at a quickened rate, sending the alcohol coursing through me straight to my brain, and with it, washing away my sense of reason, or at least that’s the only thing I can come up with as to why I suddenly dare to drag my hands a little lower.
Hips still rolling, I slowly run my palms over the curve of his shoulders, gliding them over the cuts of his pecs.
Chase’s eyes fly to mine and my hands decide to climb up, higher and higher, until my fingers are spanning along his corded neck. Chase swallows, a small frown building along his brow.
The bass of the music pounds wildly beneath our feet, the lights change colors, dimming the space around us, and the crowd seems to shuffle in. We’re barricaded now, Chase and me.
We’ve danced before. At birthdays and our parents’ anniversary parties, couple school formals, but not like this. Not close and never after a few drinks.
This is new. Foreign.
My fingers find their way into his hair, and I scratch at the base of his skull in a gentle, massage-like motion. I shift the slightest bit, on accident, and he hisses as my thigh brushes the proof of his arousal.
He’s hard.
Holy shit, he’s hard because of me.
I start a new rhythm, my body applying the smallest bit of pressure to his package with every move, and his hands come up, clutching on to my wrist, his lips finding my ear.