When We Dance

He holds my hand against his bulge. Our eyes locked.

“Why would I make you work for it, huh?”

His grin is faint and bittersweet.

“I don’t know.”

He tilts his head down so his mouth comes near mine.

“You shouldn’t believe everything he says to you,” he breathes into me.

“The same way I shouldn’t believe everything you say to me,” I murmur, our lips touching.

We’re practically almost kissing. It’s just that we’re talking to each other. But not anymore.

His heat transfers to my lips. And I wrap my arm around his waist, my hand still sealed to his groin. I feel everything. His length, his girth. The weight of his erection.

The way it stirs.

The memory of our kiss comes back to me. And we’re no longer in Miami. We’re back in New York. A bouquet of roses crushed between us. Snowflakes floating in the air.

He brings his hands to me, frames my face, and lowers his lips, waiting for a second before connecting with me.

He is so sensual, waves of heat lapping at my skin. He is so tender and hot this no longer feels like sex alone.

We break away from each other at the same moment, both weighed down by the realization.

I gasp.

He looks away, smiling, averting his eyes.

“Let’s go,” he says, showing me to his car.

“Yes… Let’s do that.”

I swallow, clear my throat, and run my fingers through my hair. And then I spin around, straighten my dress, and prance ahead of him.

Soon I reach his ride.

I pivot to face him when he closes in on me and, without a word, pulls me into his chest again. My arms wind around his neck, my lips feverishly connecting with his.

“Mmm…” I moan within seconds, welcoming him into my mouth, moving my lips and tongue with his, tightening my arms around him.

Our clothes do nothing to bring us back to reality.

I already feel naked against him while stroking his erection through his pants.

My hand goes down his neck and back, travels over his hard rear, and moves around his hip until cupping his erection again.

Some people leave the party, and someone tosses something at us in Spanish.

It’s about getting a room.

Alejandro breaks the kiss and retorts in Spanish, his eyebrows drawn together into a frown, before clicking the key and gesturing me to the car.

The doors pull up.

Moments later, we are in.

The same car. A different man. A swarm of feelings.

The car jolts under his foot and soon dashes away, but doesn’t go to the hotel.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

The windows go down.

“Away,” he says, the wind blowing his hair.