The Billionaire and the Runaway Bride

It isn’t hard at all, actually. Or maybe it’s because I’m paying extra attention to every word rolling off her perfect pink lips and the way her pretty little feet move on the floor.

When I can do the step on my own without messing up for at least three minutes, she finally says, “Let’s take a little break.”

“Okay,” I say, just to be agreeable and also because her cheeks are flushed. She might be a little tired. If I were in charge of pacing this lesson, we’d already be putting it together with her as my partner. But maybe there’s more I need to learn. I’ve never had dance lessons, and I’m sure there’s more to waltzing than just a box step. It looks a lot more complicated in historical films.

Now I wish the other dance I needed to master was the tango. It’s a passionate dance with the man and woman all over each other. At least, the ones I’ve seen are.

Thinking about it makes my blood hot. Maybe I should suggest to Melvin that a tango would be better in the other scene…

“But first we need to make sure we have good music.” Yuna looks around. “You said you played. Do you know how to play ‘Chopsticks’?”

“Sure. Everyone knows that one.”

And it’s not something you’re likely to forget. But I don’t know why she wants to play it when she can just find some decent dance music online.

“Perfect.” She smiles.

She takes my hand and walks toward the piano. The skin-to-skin contact is surprising. She hasn’t touched me since the handshake on Sunday. It makes me tingle, and my fingertips twitch with the need to hold her hand in mine and pull her closer.

I follow her to the piano, although I’m not sure what “Chopsticks” has to do with waltzing. Maybe she just wants an excuse to hold my hand. I stroke the center of her soft palm with my thumb and feel the tender flesh jerk a little. I’ve never felt anything so lovely and velvety before.

Her cheeks slightly pinker than before, she opens the lid and sits down on the left side of the bench. She pats the right side like nothing happened. “Right here’s where you sit,” she says. “Let’s do this.”

“We’re going to play ‘Chopsticks’ together?” I say, sitting next to her and making sure I’m positioned close enough to feel her flush against me. I love you, Steinway, for making this bench so short.

“Yup. Do you know it can be turned into a duet piece for four hands?”

“I didn’t know that. But don’t all duet pieces need four hands?”

“Yes, but saying ‘a piece for four hands’ indicates you only need one piano, rather than two. Some require two, like Rachmaninoff’s ‘Tarantella.’ Anyway, we’re going to record this.” She picks up the iPad and sets up the app. Then she gets up to grab her own phone and starts it ticking regularly.

“A metronome app,” she explains. “This is the correct tempo for the waltz. Ready?” She takes her spot again on the bench.

We start, with me going first.

It’s awkward at first. I’ve never played a piano with somebody like this, and I’ve never been this distracted before, either. Yuna’s a superb player, her hands playing chords I didn’t know went with the melody.

She smells really good this close

, a hint of floral body wash over something that makes me think of ripe, juicy summer peaches. My mouth waters, and I lick my lips. I almost miss a note, and cringe. Focus, dumbass. It’d be embarrassing to mess up “Chopsticks.” I’m only using two fingers, while Yuna’s using at least six. Might as well not have any fingers if I’m going to screw this up.

But the warmth from her body heats my blood every time our arms brush. My heart accelerates, and my skin feels tight. If it weren’t for the metronome app keeping me on track, I’d speed up to wrap up the duet.

Especially since I keep thinking about what her lips might taste like, and my dick is starting to get hard.

Who the hell gets excited over “Chopsticks”?

The three minutes it takes to finish the piece at tempo seem to last much longer. When we hit the final notes, I let out a sigh and shift a little to hide my reaction.

Yuna doesn’t seem to notice because she’s beaming as she checks the iPad, her cheeks a delicate shade of rose. “Perfect! Now we can totally do the next step.”

She hits play. The Steinway re-creates what we just did together. Damn. It’s pretty good. I feel like I’m getting my money’s worth.

She gestures at me to follow her, and we get up and stand in the living room again. “Ready?” she says.

“We’re going to dance to ‘Chopsticks’?”

“Yup. Didn’t you notice? It has a perfect beat for the waltz. One two three, one two three…”