“I wish you could have seen that,” he says. “You were exquisite. Believe me, Natayla, when I tell you, you were born to dance.”

I hold back the tears and nod into his chest. “Thank you for reminding me.”

Chapter Nineteen

Dashiell

I have never felt more connected to another human being than I do at this moment. With Sam’s head on my shoulder and our breathlessness and the kinetic hum that buzzes through our bodies, I’m moved beyond words. We’re those two hungry souls that came together over an identical need when we were young.

I almost forget how everything has changed until I hear Lance the douchebot’s voice break the soft sound of our breathing.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” I growl at Sam.

She looks taken aback and pulls back from my embrace. “I don’t fucking know. Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s not my keeper, and neither are you.”

I can’t believe that Lance showed up here on his own. He can’t be that in tune with Sam’s schedule unless she’s fucking telling him.

The asshole walks into the studio in his street shoes, hands on his hips. It’s all I can do not to clock him for the fake-ass sympathy display for Taye’s benefit.

“Are you okay, Natayla? Need me to tell this guy to lay off? I can give you a ride. My car’s right out front,” he tells her, puppy dog eyes and all.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I say under my breath.

“Guess the magic stops with the music,” Sam says.

I hate her for recognizing that there are more forces pulling us apart than there are putting us together.

In a moment of unencumbered rage and passion, I grab Sam, yank her to me, and kiss her ruthlessly in front of Lance, staking my claim. Natayla, every ounce of her belongs to me and not this shit for brains who’s looking to capitalize off of her talent and fame.

Sam kisses me back but with her hands firmly braced against my chest, pushing me in the opposite direction. The kiss is angry and vindictive, but that doesn’t make it any less scorching. My cock surges in my pants when I remember her unique taste.

“Dashiell, stop!” she says. Like a moan of longing into my mouth. She wants me to stop like I want a hole in my head. “Stop, I’m serious. We partner together but don’t go real life with your feelings, please,” she pleads.

Of all the shitty things to say. As if she isn’t as invested in our chemistry as I am. As if it doesn’t translate away from the dance floor. She knows it does. Our connection is even more intense when we’re touching through desire and without the pretense of choreography.

“Fuck you, Tayla. You’re as shallow as him and your bitch mother.” I grab her face when she pulls away from the kiss and hold her cheeks with my thumb and forefinger, squeezing until I know it hurts. “You mean nothing to me. And you never will again. I’ll quit the Studio Company to avoid you and your fucked up family. Go home with your boyfriend. You two deserve each other.”

Natayla bursts into tears, grabs her things, and runs from the studio. Probably right into douchebot’s arms, but I don’t bother to watch. Instead, I put an angry hip-hop song on and break. Sometimes being rough on my body is what I need.

I go from a backspin into a head spin, hold an elbow freeze, and then tumble right into multiple front flips. I kick up into a handstand and walk across the floor on my hands. Running back the way I came, I do a wall backflip that I almost miss and get hurt. But when the music stops, I can still hear Sam’s sobs from the hallway—the damaged princess she is.

In a stroke of compassion, I stride in her direction to comfort her and apologize for my reaction. But when I come around the corner, instead of finding her alone, Lance is there fawning over her like the sycophant he is. The douchebot never had a hard day in his whole fucking charmed life.

“Get away from her, you prick!” I shout with no plan in mind.

Pointing my finger at him, I charge them both on a mission. I can’t stand by and watch Sam be surrounded by assholes who don’t care who she is inside.

The anger rises and the street in me roars to the surface. I grab Lance by the front of his shirt and head-butt him. Blood spatter flies and I’ve got no idea if it’s mine or his, but it doesn’t stop me from clocking him on the bridge of his surgery-enhanced nose. I hear it break and recognize the crack and shift of bones against the knuckles of my fist.

“Go fuck yourself, Lance. Natayla isn’t yours!” I boom.

Tags: Mila Crawford Romance
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