Chapter 27 #2
He stops just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. His scent fills my senses, sweat and cologne and something purely him. “I danced like that because of you. I wanted you to see me. Really see me.”
My pulse slams in my throat as he lifts a hand and brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, his knuckles grazing my cheek. I tremble, heat spreading through me in waves. “I see you, Mateo. I always have.”
His mouth crashes against mine. It’s not gentle. It’s need and frustration and weeks of restrained desire set free. His hands cup my face, my waist, then slide around to my spine to pull me against him. I gasp, feeling every inch of him pressed against me, every sharp breath, every tremble.
I undo the top few buttons of his shirt, just to feel his skin as he kisses me deeper, harder. He groans when my nails skim his chest under the fabric of his shirt, then my hands find the hem, slipping beneath it to feel the hard lines of muscle beneath smooth skin.
He lifts me onto the counter, our bodies tangled, mouths desperate. I forget the ache in my ankle and the guilt curling in my chest, because right now, all I know is him. His hands, his mouth, and the way he says my name like it’s the only word he’s ever wanted to speak.
“Tell me to stop,” he pants against my neck.
I can’t, so I don’t.
My fingers dig into his shoulders as I pull him closer, and we drown in the heat of it, in the fire we’ve been stoking for far too long.
My hands move to undo his pants, his fingers sliding up beneath my shirt, skating across bare skin, the moment poised to tip into something we can never take back.
Then a sharp knock slices through the room.
“Hello? Is someone in there?” It’s Yvonne.
Mateo and I jolt apart, breathless and stunned.
I slide off the counter, biting down a cry as my weight lands on my bad ankle.
I wave him urgently toward a stall, and he moves quickly, disappearing behind the door and lifting his feet just as I smooth my hair, adjust my shirt, and brace myself against the counter.
Another knock. “Vaeda?”
I unlock the door and open it a crack, letting my most composed expression slide into place. “Sorry. I needed a moment to myself.”
Yvonne frowns, her eyes narrowing as she scans past me into the bathroom. “Have you seen Mateo? He disappeared after we got off the floor.”
“No idea,” I say smoothly, then offer her a smile that’s all teeth and silk. “But he has a knack for wandering.”
She doesn’t look convinced as she lingers. Behind me, Mateo stays silent, unseen, the air between us still potent with what almost happened. Then she turns on her heel with a huff and disappears back toward the ballroom.
I wait until Yvonne’s footsteps retreat down the corridor, the echo of her heels clicking like a countdown to the moment I’m about to regret.
The door swings shut behind me with a hollow thud, and silence folds in around me again.
I don’t move as I stand in the center of the bathroom, eyes locked on the mirror above the sink, watching my chest rise and fall like I’ve run a marathon.
A breath, two, then behind me, the stall creaks open. Mateo steps out, rumpled and flushed, his shirt half-buttoned and his hair an unruly mess from my hands. His eyes find mine in the mirror and hold, but neither of us speaks.
It should feel like shame or guilt, but the only thing coursing through my veins is need. My pulse drums in my ears, fast and chaotic, sounding like an ominous warning.
“I thought she wasn’t going to leave,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.
I turn to face him slowly, hands still braced behind me against the sink. “She’s suspicious.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
He walks toward me slowly, as if we’re picking up exactly where we left off. “Do you?”
I open my mouth to answer but no words come. Do I care? I should. Every instinct is screaming at me to push him back again. Not because I don’t want him, but because I want him too much.
Instead of answering, I push past him and grab my clutch off the counter, and he doesn’t stop me.
We step out of the washroom together, one after the other, carefully choreographed like the countless routines we’ve danced, except this one is lined with peril.
His hand doesn’t brush mine and his gaze doesn’t search for me again until we reach the edge of the ballroom floor.
The space is a mess of sequins and energy and the slow dissolution of the evening’s final rounds. Adam and Kari are laughing near the water station, and Grace is still seated with Greyson, a program folded neatly in her lap, her smile warming when she sees me, but mine doesn’t in return.
Yvonne is standing beside Greyson now, her hand resting lightly on Mateo’s garment bag.
She turns when she sees us, expression unreadable, and I wonder what exactly she suspects.
Mateo steps toward them, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of the team.
I linger behind, throat tight, hating how badly I want to hold on to the weight of him.
To bottle it. To revisit that moment of wild abandon, but I know better. I always have.
I make it halfway across the ballroom before Greyson stands and intercepts me, his brows furrowed as he glances at my ankle. “You’re limping again.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he snaps. “Where’s your crutch?” I stiffen and nod toward the wall, the crutch lying abandoned against it. He sighs, lowering his voice. “Vaeda, you’re making it worse.”
“You don’t get to lecture me.”
“I’m not lecturing,” he says gently. “I’m reminding you that you’ll not only lose your career, but you may never dance again if you keep this up.” I look away, jaw clenched. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m trying to make it through this for the team and our studio.”
He doesn’t argue, and that’s worse somehow. Instead, he just places a steadying hand on my arm, and it’s the first time I realize I’m shaking. “Go back to the hotel and rest. I’ll finish loading the team out.”
I nod mutely because he’s right. My future hangs precariously on an injury I am ignoring because I so desperately want to protect my image. All because I don’t want to remind my industry peers of how I ended my career, my dream, and the need to keep my ego intact.
The hotel room is dim when I hobble in on my one crutch, the curtains drawn against the burnished light of Paris at night. My body is a mess of adrenaline and dull pain, and all I want is silence, but silence doesn’t come easily.
Not when my mouth still tingles from the feel of his. Not when I can still feel the press of his hips against my thighs, the tremble in his hands, the rawness in his voice when he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull off my shoes slowly, carefully. My ankle throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the ache spreading through my chest. I’ve lied to everyone. To Greyson. To Gerardo. To me. I’m not in control anymore.
When I finally crawl into bed, I leave the pill bottle on the dresser, unopened, and stare at it for a long time before turning off the lamp and lying back against cool sheets.
I don’t dream of the Eiffel Tower or our team’s routine.
Instead, I dream of a bathroom tryst and locked doors.
Of a man with trembling hands and eyes that look at me like I’m the only thing he craves.
Of a man I can never have.