Chapter Eight Allegra #2
I shake that thought right out of my head.
The man is my tutor. If I can’t look incompetent and clueless with him, then it sort of defeats the purpose of our lessons.
I’m only doing these lessons so I don’t appear incompetent and clueless in front of the person who really matters: David.
I knew when I first approached Cord, there would be a certain amount of failure to be expected, and even if it goes against my very nature, I need to accept it.
I tuck my phone back into my bag as we all stand to get set for rehearsal. “What do I wear to a salsa club?” I whisper to Lucy as we take our places for the beginning of the show.
“Something short and swingy. And definitely wear heels.”
I groan at the thought of shoving my feet into a pair of heels after a full day of ballet.
“Actually, I have the perfect shoes in my locker. Remind me to give them to you when we’re done.” Lucy winks at me over her shoulder before flitting out onto the floor with the rest of the corps.
I focus my attention firmly on the dance in front of me, knowing I need to be fully present in order to not mess up my own section of the show. I’m dancing as one of the four Little Swans, a famous section of the ballet that requires perfect precision and timing.
Thoughts of Cord and salsa dancing and short swingy skirts will have to wait. For now, there’s only space in my brain for ballet. I give Swan Lake my full attention, and my quartet nails our portion of the dance. When we get an approving nod from David, it feels like a victory.
I have to mine the depths of my closet to come up with something short and swingy, and when I slip into the red dress that’s tight in the bust and flares around my hips, I immediately feel self-conscious.
But then I take a minute to look in the mirror.
I’ve left my hair down, swinging across my back, and it looks healthy and shiny.
I force myself to check out my figure as if I weren’t someone who’s been dancing ballet since she was three.
My breasts are pushed up by both my bra and the dress, and outside of my normal leotard ensemble, I can admit that they look good.
The short skirt shows off my legs, long and toned and accentuated by the gold heels I borrowed from Lucy.
They’re specifically made for dancing and surprisingly comfortable.
By the time my minute is up, I’m almost sad to cover my outfit with my coat, but I know the night air is chilly and I’m going to need it.
I hop on the subway, taking the time to enjoy a little Saturday-night people watching: the couple heading out for a night on the town, the businessman still typing away on his phone, the teenagers chatting and laughing, shoving each other playfully.
Cord is waiting for me in front of the club, looking better than any one man has the right to. He’s in black pants that hug his thighs and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow as if he knows forearms are my weakness.
“Nice to see you wore the appropriate footwear, Slippers.” He opens the door to the club, his hand finding a spot on the small of my back as he guides me into the space.
The entryway is dark, the bouncer flashing a light on our IDs before guiding us to the cashier. Cord hands over some kind of pass rather than cash, which is good because I hadn’t exactly budgeted for door fees.
“Do you want to check your coat?” the greeter asks me as she stamps our hands.
“Oh yeah. Sure.” I pop the buttons and slip my jacket over my arms, exchanging it for a ticket that I tuck into my clutch.
I turn to follow Cord into the main room of the club.
His eyes land on mine, but they still there for only a second before they drift down to my chest, over my hips, and down to my legs.
I wait for a pithy comment that doesn’t come. Instead, my skin burns under the force of his gaze—his gaze he seems unable to break, his eyes tracing over every inch of me with an intensity I swear I can feel. My skin pebbles under his appreciative stare and my mouth goes dry.
Eventually, I clear my throat, bringing his attention back to my face. “Shall we?”
He swallows thickly and nods, turning away from me and walking into the club. I follow behind him, taking the chance to ogle his butt in those very tight pants. At least I manage to keep my staring covert.
As soon as we enter the dance floor area, my senses are assaulted. The music is loud and so is the chatter. Brightly colored lights illuminate the walls and the bar, while a disco ball throws glitter over the crowded dance space.
Cord reaches back for my hand, leading me over to a tiny table in one of the corners.
It’s tucked away but still has an excellent view of the dancers spinning around the floor, a whirl of bright colors and rapid motion, which is good because I can’t take my eyes off them.
Their feet seem to move at the speed of light, their turns whipping around even faster than the best turner in our company.
The movements are so quick they should feel rushed and blurred, but every step they take is sharp and controlled.
Partners come together, their bodies moving with each other and against each other.
It’s mesmerizing.
And sort of hot.
Okay. Very hot.
I sink into one of the chairs and hope Cord doesn’t expect me to get out there on the floor because my body does not move like that.
But something tells me he didn’t bring me here just to watch.
“Do you want something to drink?” He has to shout over the music, leaning down so his mouth is almost level with my ear.
I shake my head. Even though tomorrow is Sunday, I still need to get a workout in, plus I’ll probably take a company class. Also, I didn’t budget for the extra calories.
“I’m going to go grab a drink. When I get back, we’re dancing.” He starts to head across the room to the bar.
I reach out and grab his arm. “In that case, I’ll take a vodka soda.” I’m going to need the liquid courage. And surely one drink won’t derail my carefully planned week.
Cord returns a few minutes later and I sip greedily.
He must see the look of abject terror in my eyes because he doesn’t immediately drag me out of my chair.
He sits next to me instead, moving his own chair close to mine so we can actually hear each other.
“So like I said before, so much of portraying sex appeal onstage is in the hips. And salsa dancing is all about the hips.”
I’ve been too focused on the dancers’ feet to pay any attention to their hips, but now my attention is drawn and my anxiety ratchets up a notch further. “My hips don’t move like that.”
Cord laughs, but it’s not unkind. “That’s why we’re here, Slippers. For you to learn.”
I gesture to a couple spinning by us. “Do you know how to do that?”
He takes a long swig of his beer. “Not as well as they do, but I know the basics.” He points to another couple, one that appears to be not quite as experienced as the rest of them. “It’s really just three steps. Out, step, in.”
I watch the couple and see that Cord is right. Amid the spins and turns, it all comes back to the basic three-step combo.
“Finish your drink and then we’re getting out there.” Cord gestures to my almost empty glass.
Shit. I didn’t even realize I was drinking that fast. I swig the last sips, vowing to drink only water from this point on.
The second my empty glass hits the table, Cord is standing in front of me with his hand out, waiting for mine. And like the complete idiot I must be, I forget what it feels like to have his skin on mine. I place my hand in his and let him tug me toward the dance floor.
Cord spins me effortlessly so that we’re facing each other, our bodies so close I smell the potent combo of his clean laundry and musk. He keeps our hands joined and his free hand slides around to my back, his palm flat, the expanse of it so wide he brushes the bare skin of my upper back.
I tentatively place my other hand on his shoulder. In reality, it’s bare hints of contact. We’re in a position I could pass off as professional. We’re just dancing together.
But then my eyes meet his and there’s something burning down in the depths. Cord’s usually cocky grin has faded, his mouth pursed so tightly it looks like he is in pain. Like being this close to me is so awful he can barely contain his grimace.
I let that thought pull me from the depths of my lust-haze. “Are you going to lead, or do I need to?”
With a snap of a finger, Cord is back to his normal self. “Let’s stick to the basic step until you get the hang of it.”
I step to the right, rock onto my other foot, and then bring my right foot back in.
I know I don’t have the rhythm, the natural ease, that the dancers around me display so effortlessly, but at least I don’t screw up the simple steps.
Cord picks up the pace after a minute, and though I have to focus a bit more, I surprise myself by falling into the movement.
Letting Cord lead me around the outer edge of the dance floor, so we stay out of the way of the more experienced pairs.
Normally I’m dancing to stand out, but here I just hope to blend in and it’s a freeing sort of change.
“Good,” he says, leaning in close so I can hear him over the blare of the music. “You’ve got the footwork, now it’s time to add the flare.”
I don’t like the sound of that. “Who needs flare?” I practically yell back. It’s easier to scream than to bring myself close enough that my lips might accidentally brush the skin of his ear.
His grin is back, the cocky one. “Come on, Slippers. Have a little fun with it.” His fingers dig into my waist, and I do something I might come to regret later: I let him have full control.