The Dance Off

She hooked the towel over the heel of her shoe and flicked it up into her hands. “Now that’s sorted, I think we need to take a step back.”

“Back from where exactly?” he asked, his deep voice tripping luxuriously over her bare skin.

“Learn to stand before we start to move. Tonight we’ll work on your posture.”

“What’s wrong with my posture?”

Not a single thing. “It’s a process, Ryder. A journey we are going on together. A journey in which I impart my wisdom and you do as you’re told.”

“So what are you telling me to do, exactly?”

She looked at him—hands in pockets, legs locked, suit jacket as good as a straightjacket for all the movement it offered him—and then, before she could stop herself, she said, “Strip.”

Quick as a flash, he came back with “After you.”

She hid her reaction—instant, hot, chemical—and, with a flick of her hand, she spun on her toes till she was standing side on. “Unlike you, I came wearing appropriate attire. Can you not see my spine, the equilibrium in my hips, the tension in my belly?”

So much for not playing with fire. The gleam in the guy’s eyes turned so flinty it was amazing they hadn’t sent up sparks.

Then, right when Nadia was on the brink of recanting her rash invitation, a muscle twitched in Ryder’s jaw and his dark eyes began to rove. Over her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, her ribs, her belly, not lingering at any one spot longer than any other. Which only heightened the tension pulling at every place his eyes touched.

Point made—and points lost too, she rued—she slowly turned to face him, hands on hips as she waited till his gaze lifted to meet hers. “Take off your jacket, Mr Fitzgerald. And your tie. Dress shirt too, if you’re game. You can leave on your singlet. I just need to figure out where your stiffness comes from.”

He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. Instead merely leaving his gaze on hers as the double entendre remained, lingering on the air between them, all the hotter for not being touched.

Gaze snagged on hers, Ryder lifted his hands to his jacket, sliding it from his shoulders. Next came his tie. She had no idea where the things landed as she couldn’t take her eyes from his. For then she’d have to look somewhere else. Somewhere lower.

But when his long brown fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, her disobedient eyes followed as he slid them through the neat holes of his perfect white button-down one by one.

He tugged his dress shirt from his suit trousers, slid it from his arms and laid it neatly over the chaise with the rest of his gear. As it turned out, the guy wasn’t wearing a singlet after all. And when she looked up again, it was to find his eyes still on hers, daring, challenging, till defiance hummed between them, filling the dimly lit room so that the windows near vibrated.

“This what you were after?” he asked, the roping muscles of his long arms bunching as he held them out to the sides.

But Nadia couldn’t answer; by that stage her mouth had gone bone dry. All she could do was nod, then busy herself with getting rid of the dirty towel. She somehow made it to the corner of the room and tossed it into the plastic bin. Curling her fingers around the edge a moment, she attempted to calm her thundering heart.

Okay, so asking him to strip had been a reflex action. The curse of a quick tongue. She was her mother’s daughter after all. But she’d hardly thought he’d acquiesce. And how...

The men in her life had been lean. Not an ounce of fat on their undernourished bodies. Their faces on the edge of gaunt, the rest of them covered with the kind of muscle that clung in desperation to the bones. And waxed to within an inch of their lives.

Ryder Fitzgerald, with his hulking shoulders, big rolling muscles, thick thatches of hair beneath his underarms and whirls of dark curls all over his chest that dared not mar the taut, rolling muscles of his stomach before reforming in a flagrant V that disappeared beneath his trousers, might as well have been an entirely different species. Everything about him was bigger. Stronger. Lustier. Every inch of him gleamed with robust health.

And with one glance something primal had roared to life deep within her.

She glanced back over her shoulder to check if he was for real, and found he wasn’t even watching her. While she was deep in the grips of a wave of impossible lust, hands on hips, back to her, he was staring up at the damn rafters!

“Right,” she said, gathering her scattered wits and forcing herself to get a grip. “Clock’s ticking. Let’s do this thing.”

Ryder turned; silvery moonlight and golden light of the old chandeliers pouring over him till his skin glowed, making the absolute most of the hills and valleys of his musculature. If the guy could actually dance he’d have given Patrick Swayze himself a run for his money.