6. Chapter Six #2
Could I turn in his arms, capture his lips?
Would he lay me down on the cold concrete, fuck me on the floor?
Or perhaps he’d press me against the wall, my legs circling his waist, the concrete blocks cold against the small of my back?
Fantasy after fantasy raged, completely inappropriate and impossible to control.
“Show me,” he said.
If I stuck out my ass while I moved, I’d brush against him, be able to feel whether he was as turned on as I was. So much I could show him. I needed to leave this room, go back to my bed, and let my hands do the things I wished his hands would do.
Professional. Detached.
“This is the man’s part.” I hated how breathy I sounded, as though I’d been twirling around the floor for minutes.
“Okay.” He broke eye contact to stare at my feet in the mirror again.
“Ready? Start with your left leg.”
He nodded.
“Rock,” I said, stepping back. “Feel the way my hips shift there?”
He swallowed and met my gaze in the mirror again. Another nod .
“You want to mimic that. Not so stiff.” I wiggled my hips to showcase the loose movement and then put my hands over his, slowing it down, doing it again.
The air between us grew tense. There was no way I was the only one feeling this intensity, this desire. When I caught sight of him in the mirror, his locked jaw, there was no question he wanted me.
“Not too stiff,” he agreed. A smile flashed across his face as though something was funny.
What else was stiff besides his hips? Pressing my hand to the front of his jeans would test my theory. Would he give me one of my fantasies if I asked? Up against a wall, down on the floor, hot bodies, cold concrete.
Not worth it.
I needed this job. I needed him to master this routine—that was it.
“Okay,” I said, finding my voice. “Again. Rock back and a little behind. Yep. Just like that. Then the front leg steps.”
We could see each other in the mirror, but when he did the hip movement right, I half turned to grin at him, caught up in his success. Without the mirror as a barrier, our eye contact was stunningly intense, and my breath caught in my throat.
His focus shifted between meeting my gaze and staring at my lips. The fire ignited and caused a short circuit in my brain.
I wanted him. So badly .
I spun the rest of the way in his arms, and our lips met without a word. The fire between us flared, finally finding enough oxygen.
Perhaps this had been the dance all along? He met my kiss hungrily, as though I’d been a prison warden denying him the vital sustenance he needed to survive. I circled his neck with my arms, and his big hands slid down my body, cupped my ass, and drew me tight to him .
I deepened the kiss at the realization that he was hard and ready. My body was slick with need, desperate for fulfillment. I’d been switched on for hours, days, the mere thought of him making me crave almost constant release.
Even this wasn’t close enough to satisfy the urges that had been living inside me.
I slid my hands down his body, marveling at all his well-defined muscles, ones I barely saw the other night because we kept so many clothes on.
I wanted to see him. All of him. I wanted to claim every inch of his skin as mine.
At my gentle tug, his T-shirt came over his head, and I broke the kiss to trail my lips and tongue along his shoulders, the hollow of his throat.
I flicked my tongue against his nipple, and he made a guttural sound, so sexy I wanted to melt at his feet.
My hand skimmed the edge of his pants, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
When I went to release the button, release him, he put his hand over mine.
“No.” The word was strangled. “No, no.”
“Pasha.” I rose on my toes and put my lips against his ear. “I want you.”
He gathered me tight, the pressure firm but not quite crushing. He buried his face in my neck and took some deep breaths before letting me go and grabbing his shirt off the floor.
I stood still in the cool room, stunned. Was this a rejection? Was he rejecting me? But he wanted me. The hard length of him was against my body, ready.
Once his shirt was back on, he ran his hand through his close-cropped sandy blond hair and sighed. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Maybe someone else should teach me the dance.”
It took a moment for his words to process. His desire was so clear I wondered how he wasn’t in pain. I was aching, as though we spent weeks engaged in foreplay and then he left me dangling on the edge of the orgasmic cliff.
“What?” My brain was caught up in remembering the size of him, the heaviness of his body over mine, rubbing against me, making me feel so good.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe someone else—”
“I heard you,” I snapped, coming out of my trance. Frustration ripped through. I fled to my bag and yanked the zipper across. The grate of the metal was loud in the room.
Why had I kissed him? Now things would be even more awkward because, while his body wanted me, he clearly didn’t. How was that possible? Men loved sex. All men loved sex. I offered myself on a plate, and he turned me down.
Behind me, I could sense him, as though we were magnets being drawn together. Didn’t he feel it? Chemical, electrical—hormones overloading a circuit. At least all the circuits in my brain. I closed my eyes. Maybe it was just me.
“I can find you someone else,” I said before I slung the bag over my shoulder and slammed the practice-room door.