Chapter 12
LUCIAN
The sound of maracas and drums playing over the speakers greeted me when I opened the door, and my lips stretched into an excited smile.
I’d heard the music more than a few times since Aspen moved in, but I’d never caught her unaware enough to see her dancing.
She always noticed me and stopped whenever I rounded a corner.
Ever since the club, we’d both been… off.
Like an elephant had wandered into our home and we’d silently agreed not to acknowledge it—hoping if we ignored it long enough, it would shrink, and eventually disappear.
All we had to do was wait.
But the waiting was agony.
The moment we got home that night, she’d claimed she felt sick, retreating to her room before I could say anything else, and I let her go. The next morning, she greeted me with an exaggerated smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
As the days passed, she was overly formal and reserved.
A jarring shift from the woman who’d stormed in with her Vegijante mask, demanding I hang it in the living room, because this was her house too, now, and that’s where she wanted it.
As much as I hated the shift in how she acted around me, I followed her lead. The alternative meant confronting what I’d said at the club—and the way she’d looked at me after.
While I may have avoided discussing anything that lingered between us, I didn’t hesitate to give her pleasure every chance I got. At least there, nothing had changed. She still submitted beautifully, and we both spilled our truths in frantic touches, tender kisses, and desperate, punishing sex.
But I missed the woman who met my challenges with a wicked smile. The one who slipped laughter between our bickering like it was second nature.
So, hearing the music drifting from the kitchen, I felt a rush of excitement. She was relaxed enough to let herself move again. To feel.
It gave me hope that maybe—despite the silence, despite the weight between us—we could still find our way back and make this work.
I gently closed the door and walked as quietly as I could to peer into the kitchen.
Other than a few glances, I never saw much of her moves, but today the music held her captive.
With her eyes closed, she moved to the changing beat.
Her bare feet carried her across the floor with quick steps and long strides that matched the rhythm of the song.
Her body flowed with elegant sways of her arms and sharp stops of her shoulders and hips, mixed with rapid undulations that moved in time with the driving beat.
I figured I’d be turned on by watching her dance, but I wasn’t prepared for the swell of emotions deep in my chest that her movements evoked.
The song and the way she matched her flow to the beat stirred something primal.
It swelled, taking over my lungs, and I found myself holding my breath until finally the beats ended, and she touched her hand to her head and bowed to the speaker on the counter, as if tipping her hat.
Air whooshed from my lungs, and I started clapping.
She screamed at the first strike and whirled around, her hand to her chest. “Holy fucking shit, Lucian,” she gasped, folding in half and sucking down deep breaths before standing again. “Goddamn. You scared the shit out of me.”
I laughed, but kept clapping. “Sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to. I was just basking in finally getting to see you dance.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away, but not before I saw pink tinge her cheeks. “That’s not my actual dancing.”
“No?” I tipped my head, studying her. “How do you usually dance?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Like normal women do at the club.”
I hummed in thought. “I think I’d rather catch you dancing to those earthy beats than any club song. Although I’m sure your normal dancing would turn me on as well.”
“Oh, really?” she asked with a deadpanned stare.
“Of course, but nothing like that,” I said, making my way around the island, closer to her. I took advantage of her teasing response and leaned into the playfulness brewing between us like it used to. “That was bold and dynamic…raw.”
The corners of her mouth quirked up, and her eyes gleamed. “It’s called Bomba,” she said softly.
The light shining in her amber eyes acted as another reminder of how much I missed this carefree side of her.
I wanted it last. So, instead of reaching for her as I planned, I perched on a stool and waited for more.
At my clear interest in wanting to know more, her whole face lit up, igniting the familiar warm goo that spread through my chest more and more as the days went on.
“It’s such a beautiful part of our culture that I learned about when my mom and I went to visit her family.” She laughed, light and airy. “Walking around a market and coming across a crowd surrounding some musicians playing drums and maracas is one of my favorite memories of my mom.”
“What happened?” I asked, eager for more of her infectious joy.
Her mouth curved into an excited smile as she moved to the open floor. “She slipped off her shoes—which was shocking after all the times she told me to keep mine on when I was outdoors, so I didn’t get some disease.”
“My parents said the same thing,” I said, laughing with her.
“When she saw my shocked face, she explained afterward that it has to do with being grounded,” she explained.
She shook her arms as if loosening up. “Then she stepped into the circle the crowd made and moved around the edges to set the rhythm with the drummer. She called them basic steps, but they still looked complicated as hell to me.”
While she explained, she took small dance steps and moved her arms in time, slowly showing me how it came together.
“Then—I’ll never forget it.”
She closed her eyes and sighed wistfully, a soft smile curling her lips, and I wanted nothing more than to take a photo of her in that moment. She looked so happy, so calm, so peaceful. She was stunning.
Her eyes slid open, directing a coy smile my way.
“She smiled at me and winked before turning to the drummer. She touched her forehead and bowed…and then she moved.” Aspen mimicked the moves she explained, holding me enraptured with each step and matching sway of her arms. “She had this chiffon wrap that she whipped around with each flowing move.”
Slowly, she came to a stop and leaned against the counter beside me, still holding that easy smile on her lush lips. My mouth watered, imagining leaning to taste the tempting curve.
“I’d watched my parents dance around the kitchen, but I’d never seen my mom move like that.
It was beautiful and powerful. She controlled the beat, and it reverberated through my chest, filling me with the pride she always told me I should have about our culture.
I’d just never listened. But I heard it then.
She spoke through the music, and I finally heard her,” she explained, reverence softening her voice.
“Everyone watched her as the music moved faster and faster, keeping up with her dance moves, until she eventually stopped, laughing with so much joy, before she touched her forehead again with a bow to the drummer.” She demonstrated what she was explaining before turning to me with a cocky smirk.
“Other people danced after her—and were beautiful—but my mom had something special.”
I hung on to her every word so I could learn more about this woman who became more beautiful and complex with each passing day.
“That sounds astounding—or awe-inspiring. I don’t know.” I laughed. “I’m trying to come up with a word big enough for what you explained.”
“It can be hard without experiencing it.” She nodded in understanding. “But, yeah…I kind of became obsessed with it after that and made my mom teach me everything she knows. She said she could only teach me the basic steps, and I had to learn the rest by telling a story of my own.”
“That sounds difficult,” I mused. “I can only do basic dances that my mom taught me so I could dance with her at events in case my father couldn’t come.”
“Yeah, I know a few of those for my dad, too.” She scrunched her face before shrugging. “I’m not great at the Bomba, but I like listening to the music and moving my body in new ways to create something original and different each time. It makes me feel closer to my mom.”
“I would love to see you do a full dance someday if you’re willing to show me.”
Her smile grew, and it was as if the sun shone only on her. “Yeah. Someday.”
The warm goo didn’t just spread—it flooded me, consuming me so thoroughly I struggled to breathe.
I struggled to breathe…
My heart raced, and I didn’t want to lose this moment, but flares of alarm alerted my body that getting hurt was imminent, and I should panic and run.
The urge to escape was too sharp for something as simple as a conversation. And that’s when it hit me. I’d become so averse to feeling good with a woman in any way other than physically that even the simplest interaction that sparked happiness sent my body into fight-or-flight mode.
The emotions piled on top of one another, crowding my chest, pressing tight against my ribs, choking my lungs.
Run. Run. Run.
I hated that voice. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t afraid of anything. I didn’t run.
But I also didn’t do feelings. Not since Daria.
The overwhelming sensation was too much, and I didn’t want to ruin this moment. I wanted to avoid everything about it altogether.
So, like I had for the past fifteen years, I shut it down—just like I had at the club. After stumbling upon Corbin doing a demonstration, I turned to find Aspen watching me with something dangerously close to what we’d sworn not to feel.
I’d panicked and shut it down aggressively.
But I didn’t want a repeat performance. Not after we’d gained so much ground today. I needed to shut this feeling down—for both of us, but I needed to do it differently than the club.
Softer.
Controlled.
Anything to keep her smile intact while I buried whatever the hell was rising in my chest.