Chapter 22
Abuzzer announces the countdown to our live competition. Standing at the opening of my tent, I take deep, calming breaths. On stage, Miguel chats with Parker as casually as if we weren’t about to be streamed around the globe.
She leaves the stage. The grip counts down. Three. Two. We go live.
“It’s time for the final portion of FTW’s first Last Stand competition,” Miguel says, smiling into the camera. “As you know, tonight is Yolanda Vasquez’s last chance to remain on the show. In keeping with our balance theme, tonight, Easton and Yolanda will be professionally judged by how well they perform steps to a dance they had equal time to learn.”
The screen cuts to footage of me, then of Easton, practicing with our professional partners. I cringe at my performance. It’s a bit dishonest. Sí, I held back. Mateo’s suggestion. He told me that I wanted to be underestimated. I’m assuming Easton played his rehearsal straight, so as I watch his footage, I’m evaluating him. He’s good. Smooth. Sexy.
I’m better.
When the footage stops, Miguel turns to the three judges and introduces them. Each one stands as the audience applauds. They clap loudest for Denia álvarez, a famous Latin singer and dancer. She blows kisses to the adoring audience.
Finally, Miguel introduces Easton, who bounces from his place in the wings to center stage with a confidence and charisma that captivates me. How does he do it?
Néstor appears beside me and, with a steadying hand on my forearm, helps me to the waiting platform that connects to the stage.
Onstage, Easton and Miguel shake hands and chat. My dress feels uncomfortably tight against my heaving chest as I take in deeper and deeper breaths. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.
Go, Néstor mouths as Miguel welcomes me to the stage. I saunter across the wood flooring. Enthusiastic applause rolls over me like warm waves from the ocean. There are catcalls and whistles. Mateo hoots loudly. Haydée stands up, stomping on the bleachers while holding a sign that reads, Observala.
Watch her.
I strut across the stage as if making her sign a demand. I sense all eyes on me. And, for the first time in my life, I’m not only enjoying the attention, I feel worthy of it.
When I near the two men, Easton’s smoldering gaze sends heat racing down my body.
I can’t help it. I wink at him.
A corner of his mouth kicks up.
Tengo esto.
With a broad smile on his face, Miguel turns to Easton. “It’s a good thing for you this isn’t a fashion competition.”
Easton’s gaze is deadly serious. “I can admit she has me beat.”
Though enjoying his admiration and the compliment, I shake my head in denial. “Ay, no estoy segura,” I purr, and let my eyes drop over him. Forgetting my usual reserve I add, “If you added a mask, you’d be my Zorro fantasy personified.”
Easton chokes out a laugh, then clears his throat. “Judges, can we get an unsportsmanlike penalty called here?”
Chuckling, Miguel takes Easton’s words as an opening to quickly go over the rules. Basically, stick to the steps and let the judges decide.
“?Comprenden?” he asks when he’s done.
I nod my agreement, but there’s silence from Easton. Díos. He will set me on fire with that stare.
“Easton? Understand the rules?” Miguel asks.
I raise my eyebrows.
Easton’s eyes stay locked on me, and I realize he’s lost his focus. Easton Blake, cool as a cucumber, millions of followers, professional and global entrepreneur, has lost his focus… because of me.
Miquel prods him again, and Easton quickly catches up to what’s happening. With a , mischievous grin, he says, “Understood. And I’m going to give her everything I’ve got.”
Ay. I wish.
With an uncertain nod, Miguel steps back, leaving a space for Easton and me to come together. Instantly, East’s left hand encircles my right hand. While his other hand—with that tattoo of the moon—snakes possessively to the small of my back.
The command and challenge of his form and stance tell me in no uncertain terms that Easton wasn’t lying. He’s going to give me all he has.
My left hand, with the wrist tattoo of the world, inches to his firm shoulder. I gaze into his eyes and see a steely determination intent on devouring me. My heart beats so loud, it vibrates across my collarbone.
The first guitar notes of the song strum. We move in sync, as if we’ve practiced a thousand times together, instead of with completely different partners.
I begin to swing and sway, weaving nuance into the practiced steps, setting a challenge. One that he answers.
Our dance quickly becomes a call and response. He replies to my every strut and shift with a countering force, a presence that demands I reckon with him.
The press of his hand against my lower back. His calloused palm dwarfing mine. The tight, muscular lock of his arms keeping me exactly where he wants. Close, but not too close. His strength and presence, all of it, absorbs my focus.
Mami once told me that there is magic in the dance. I realize now how true those words were. We are no longer on stage in front of a live audience; we are dancing on the beach, by ourselves, under the stars.
He spins me out and I can feel his gaze on my ass.
I spin back, flowing with the song’s pounding rhythms. He takes me back into his arms, and I rejoice in the electric current zinging between us. In the hot challenge and fierce tempo our bodies set. In the free and wild movement of my hips. In the devouring answer of his attention. In the playful, yet deadly serious, response of his body adapting to mine.
He might be leading me, guiding me forward or back, bringing me around in sharp, dramatic turns, but, in all other ways, his movements conform to my embellishments. I fill the stage. Unashamedly displaying my body, my desire, and my skills.
As if to wrest back control, Easton’s right leg moves between mine, abrupt, forceful—and unexpected. This isn’t a practiced move. He uses that leg to bend me into a dip. The world goes upside down.
He is showing me that he can and will take control at any moment, demanding that I play by his rules. Naughty man. That’s not fair.
But, ay, it’s definitely a turn-on.
Smoothly, I arch back farther, let my fingertips skim the wooden dance floor, forcing my body closer to his. The tingle of energy curls my toes.
On my way back up, I take the opportunity to rotate my hips, creating friction that celebrates and unleashes me. I am as alive as I have ever been.
His eyes are on fire when I return to standing. His hooded gaze tells me he would literally do it on this dance floor with me. And, in so many ways, we are.
He doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. Using that same leg, he forces me back, more a tango than a salsa. He spins me around and around the dance floor. None of this is part of our dance. This is all him, showing me what he has in store for me.
Easton is seducing me.
His force and flare, his control and spinning heat, warn me that sex with him, with the man who has learned so much since we were together—learned to dance, learned to dominate, learned rule-breaking ways to pleasure—would be better than anything I could imagine.
I am aflame.
I close the distance between us, rock my hips in response, delighting when a rumbling growl vibrates from his lips.
We are not only dancing, not only enjoying each other, but daring each other. It is heat and want and yes-please-don’t-stop. And we are the only two people in the world right now.
Knowing our song is nearing an end, I put everything I have into my finale, raising my arms, snapping my hips and slapping my heels to the ground.
There’s a shift in my right heel. It buckles. I slip and almost fall.
As he’s done all night, Easton responds automatically. His hand tightens on my back, draws me closer, supports me with easy strength. He anchors me to him.
We are so close, are breaths mingle.
Thanks to his support, I make quick adjustments and switch from heels to the balls of my feet. My heart pounds now for a different reason. That wasn’t my mistake. My heel broke. It’s no longer fully attached.
Since I mostly dance on the balls of my feet, I hadn’t noticed an issue until I made that dramatic contact. The music stops. Easton dips me as part of our practiced routine.
My leg goes up. His hand cups around the back of my neck supporting me. His face is inches from mine. When he doesn’t pull out of the stance, I wait with my chest heaving.
His panting breaths push heat across my lips. His gaze stays locked on me. He lowers his mouth toward mine.
“Easton?” I whisper.
His hooded eyes spring wide. His cheeks heat. Smiling, he lifts me out of the dip. He holds up my right hand as we face the judges.
Ay. Díos.
Did he really almost kiss me?
We bow to the judges who are all standing and clapping for us. We rise, both breathing heavily. My smile feels as wide as the horizon. I finally hear the audience, who I’d become oblivious to during the dance. Oblivious to a lot of things.
In fact, if not for the jolting reality of my loose heel, I’d likely have let Easton kiss me. And that would’ve been muy mal. Very bad.
Easton’s hand rests possessively on the small of my back. I stand at his side, wedged under his arm, my palm against his sweat-soaked, muscular abs. My hand rises and falls with the movement of his breaths. There is no way not to touch him right now. Every vibrating cell in my body has decided for me. I can no more fight it than I could fight the need for sleep after being awake for three days.
The lead judge, Denia, sits back into her seat at the judges’ table. The other two judges join her, still clapping.
A beautiful fifty-something woman with long, black hair, Denia waves her hand like a fan in front of herself, leans toward the mic, and announces in that well-known deep and sultry voice with its lilting Spanish accent, “That dance was as hot as the nights in Puerto Rico.”
She laughs as the other judges, Anna Swift and Clark Rodgers, echo her sentiments. Clark, younger than Denia by at least a decade, says, “Easton, you took a chance using unsanctioned moves, and I would’ve called it unsportsmanlike if it hadn’t set the stage on fire. Likewise, your response to the moves, Yolanda, was muy caliente.”
“Ay. Your Spanish accent hurts my ears, Clark,” Denia says, cutting him off in a rude way, typical of their interactions on their show. “I agree, though. As delicious as it was to watch, that move cost you points, Easton. Your strategy was to take control from Yolanda, who was burning up the stage. Unfortunately for you, it also demonstrated that she was setting the pace all along. She threw down that hot sway and swing and demanded you keep up.”
“But he did keep up,” the third judge, a twenty-three-year-old pop star, croons. Her eyes dip over Easton. “Big time.”
Denia nods agreeably, then looks directly at me. “Yolanda, as much as Easton gave to his performance, I think no one would argue that you rocked the dance floor with him. In my opinion, you won this competition, hands—or should I say, hips—down.”