The Dance Off

With each clack of her heels on the old wooden floor, Nadia’s tension ramped up and up. But this was a dance class. A close-hold dance class. Not touching him would only draw attention to her folly. At least that was what she told herself as her hand went to his shoulder.

His naked skin was silken, hot, it twitched at her touch, and the spark between them morphed into some living thing, twisting and shooting around them, filling the huge space with a crackling energy that struggled to be contained.

Nadia barely had time to take it all in, as Ryder didn’t wait for instructions. He curled his fingers around her right hand, placed his other hand in the small of her back and moved deep into her personal space.

Her gaze was level with his collarbone, the scent of his skin so near she was lost within the mix of rain, heat and spice, her eyes so heavy she couldn’t seem to lift them to his.

“Music?” he asked, his voice deep, low, intimate.

And it took half a second for Nadia to realise she’d yet to turn the damn CD player on. Snapped out of her haze, she swore under her breath and yanked the remote from the overturned waistline of her tights, and poked the thing in the direction of the stereo.

Norah Jones oozed from the speakers, warm and sultry. As she made to change it Ryder’s hand came down over hers.

“Seems as good as any,” he said, his gaze as good as saying, Now you’ve got me where you want me, what are you going to do with me?

What she wasn’t going to do was tell the guy the song was too damn intimate for her liking, making her think of smoky jazz bars, and dark corners, and roving hands, and hot lips, and hot skin...

She lifted her chin, clamped her hand hard over his. “Start at your feet. Press them into the floor. Your leg muscles will switch on. Now soften your knees. Like you’re about to bend them, without bending them. Press your inner thighs together—”

At that his hips pressed into hers and Nadia prayed for mercy.

“Lift your torso away from your hips, like there’s a string coming out the top of your head and somebody’s stretching you to the rafters. Now chin up, shoulder blades back and down and—”

“Breathe?” he asked, his voice strained.

The laughter that shot from her was unexpected, and he rewarded her with a small smile.

“Can only help.”

Only when she felt in her bones, in that place inside her that knew dance better than it knew life itself, that they were positioned just so, she began to sway. Pressing his hand with hers, his thighs with hers, she tilted her hips to his until his movement matched hers. And even while every point of contact thrummed with awareness, dance-wise, compared to the week before, it was actually better.

“Feel that?” she asked several bars later.

“I feel something,” he murmured.

“Not so stiff tonight,” she said, and felt him turn to stone beneath her touch. “Oh, relax. I meant in the hips,” she added, giving his arm a shake to get him moving again. “Been practising, have we?”

A muscle clenched in his jaw as he grumbled something about the better he knew the steps, the fewer lessons he’d have to endure.

“Really?” she said, honestly surprised. “Good for you.”

He grunted. “I feel like I’m in one of those movies were you’re about to ask if I could be your partner in some dancing contest.”

She laughed again; this time it slid more readily through her. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sunshine. You couldn’t keep up with me if you tried.”

“No?” Without warning, he took her by the hand and twirled her out to the ends of his fingers. Years of training kicked in and she went with it, using her weight to hit the end and swing back where he swept her into a dip that left her breathless.

It wasn’t the most graceful move she’d ever executed, and yet her breath thundered through her body as his dark shadow loomed over her, as his strong arm braced her back, as his striking eyes stared hard and deep into hers.

Her hands curled against his bare pecs, and for the first time she wondered about Mr Testosterone’s life beyond the hour they spent together Tuesday nights. Did he lift cars for a living? Chop down hardwoods? No, not a bump in that perfect nose, not a single scar on that dauntingly flawless face...

Then, far more gently than she expected, he eased her back upright until they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh, in a loose ballroom hold.

“How was that?” he asked, shifting so that she fitted closer still. Close enough to see flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. Close enough that every breath in was filled with his scent.

“Needs work.”

“That’s what I’m paying you for.”