Chapter 15 Annie #2
“What is what called?” I breathe. I’ve lost the plot.
“The reaction.”
“Sure.”
“It’s called the Maillard reaction,” he tells me, eyes sparkling.
“What’s that?”
“Maillard.” He spells it.
“Like mallard?”
The massive grin that splits across his face comes out of nowhere. “With an ‘i,’” he says.
Something about this inexplicably tugs at my brain.
Nico searches my face, and his grin grows even wider. Jesus, it’s like staring directly into the sun.
“Anyway,” he says, “It’s pronounced my-ard. It’s French. Named after a French dude, a chemist. Louis Camille Maillard.” He pronounces his name with an awful approximation of a French accent.
Téo eventually finishes up and throws everything onto platters. The kitchen and front of house staff descend upon it. We let everyone take their share first before loading up our plates.
We take it out to the front and dig in.
“Holy shit,” I find myself saying again. “It’s honestly shocking how something so easy and boring can be so incredible.”
“And that,” Nico declares around a mouthful of eggs, “is what I think you big-brain writer people call a metaphor.”
“Nuh uh,” I tell him.
He turns the car off. “Uh huh.”
“Nope.”
“What’s wrong?” He’s grinning.
“It starts with ‘this is a lame cliché’ and ends with ‘I don’t want to do this,’” I tell him, but he’s already out of the car and on my side, opening my door.
He holds his hand out. “C’mon.”
“No.”
“Get out of the car, Annie.”
“I refuse.”
“Get out of the fuckin’ car, Annie.”
“N—”
He reaches in, unbuckles my seatbelt, scoops me up, and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
I’m in the middle of screeching when I feel his teeth sink into the side of my hip. “Shush,” he says.
“Did you just bite me?” Do it again.
“What, Sister Annie isn’t allowed to eat?”
“Sister Annie isn’t eating anything!”
“Can I eat Sister Annie?”
“Nico,” I groan.
“She wouldn’t have to do anything,” he adds on conversationally, while carrying me like a bag of potatoes into a building labeled Bachata Soul Durham alongside dozens and dozens of other couples. “It’ll get messy, but I’d take care of all the prep work and clean up.”
“Oh my god.”
“With my tongue,” he adds.
I sigh.
“That’s a metaphor for I want to eat your pussy,” he clarifies, and I explode into giggles.
I almost turn and run back to the car once Nico puts me down, but he puts me down in front of the most adorable elderly couple and immediately says, “Hi! I’m Nico, and this is Annie, my—”
I blow out a breath. “Worst enemy,” I finish for him.
Nico is nonplussed. “She means that in a good way now.”
“Hi, Nico and Annie,” the woman says. She has to be at least seventy-five years old, but you never know. We don’t raisin, and all that. “I’m Jing, and this is my husband Elton.”
He inclines his head.
“We own the place, and we’re going to be leading the class.”
She turns to me. She asks me something in Mandarin.
“I don’t understand Mandarin,” I say in very badly mangled Mandarin. “Do you speak Cantonese?”
She switches with ease. “Have you fucked him yet?”
My mouth drops open.
“Because if you haven’t, you sure will after this class.”
Her husband chuckles.
I blink.
She switches back to English. “Good to have you two in,” she says with a wink. They move on to greet another couple.
“What’d she say?” Nico asks.
I’m still standing there gaping after them. I shake myself out of it. “She said, ‘Nico is an asshole for making you do this, and you should probably leave before you embarrass yourself.’”
He drapes an arm around my shoulders. “That’s funny. To me, it sounded like ‘something something unresolved sexual tension something something.’”
I elbow him in the side and look around. The studio is packed with couples, some people nervously shifting their weight, while others look like they were born to do this. I wonder which Nico is.
“Have you done this before?” I ask, as one of the people nervously shifting their weight.
“Few times,” he answers, looking like he was born to do this.
Jing claps her hands to grab everyone’s attention.
She has everyone gather around, and then she and her husband begin giving a short introduction of what to do and what to expect, which all roughly translates to “grind your pelvis into Nico’s dick for an hour.
” I can’t believe this. My palms, my neck, my face, everything is sweaty. My nipples are hard.
Nico is looking like the cat that ate the canary.
Jing claps her hands again. “Let’s get started. Ladies, follow me. Gentlemen, you’re going to lead. Don’t be shy,” she says to my dismay, “feel the music!”
I feel like I’m about to vomit, but also? Honestly? There’s something about Nico’s presence that reassures me. Like I’m not totally alone in this. I would never tell him this, though.
The two of them demonstrate the basic steps, stepping forward and back, making the movement look so effortless that I almost believe it’s easy. The two of them glide with a sensual fluidity that makes them look forty years younger, while I all but tear my hair out at how close they are.
“Now, ladies, you’re going to mirror your partner,” Jing announces. “Gentlemen, lead them through the steps.”
Nico looks down at me, his lips curving into a small, amused smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you, honey,” he tells me, low and coddling. “I can lead.”
Adrenaline suddenly spikes through my body. I feel like a rabid dog, salivating and snapping at my leash, demanding to get Nico’s hands all over me. I nod and step closer.
He takes my hand in his, his grip warm, strong, and steady, thumbs brushing over the tops of my fingers as he gently pulls me toward him.
There’s something comforting about the way his hand wraps around mine, like I’m not just learning to dance—I’m learning something else, something big, and somehow, that feels even harder than getting the steps right.
Nico steps back first, pulling me along with him. His movements are smooth, graceful, confident—and I feel like I’m stumbling in slow motion. My feet don’t quite match his, and I step on his toes more than once.
“Sorry,” I mumble, wincing.
“It’s okay,” Nico purrs, gaze lazy and molten. “You’re doing so good. Just relax, baby.”
I stumble again with the force of the sudden deluge between my legs.
We go through the basic steps again, this time a little smoother, but still—his movements are so fluid, while mine are still stiff and awkward. I can feel my face flush with embarrassment, but Nico just gives me that encouraging yet horny look that somehow makes it all feel okay.
“Okay, now let’s add some hip movement,” Elton says, clapping to the rhythm. “Let your hips follow the beat—don’t be shy!”
“For fuck’s sake,” I groan at the ceiling.
The corners of Nico’s lips are twitching.
“It’s all in the hips, honey,” he growls playfully.
“Don’t be shy.” He guides me through it, his hands steady as he moves us in time with the music.
His own hips sway effortlessly, and as he glances down at me, there’s a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Relax, really. Stay with me. Trust me. Just follow my lead.”
I feel a little ridiculous, my hips moving awkwardly, but Nico doesn’t stop. His hand slides from my lower back to my hip, pulling me closer as he sets the rhythm. My body follows his, albeit not with the same grace, but I try to match him.
I start to get the hang of it, and after several marginally successful steps, his fingers press gently into my side.
My breath hitches. He increases the pressure, and there’s something about the way he touches me—nothing overt, just the press of his hand that sends a spark straight down to my toes.
He’s guiding me through the dance, but with every step, every slight shift of his hand, something between us builds, slow and deliberate.
Suddenly, Nico pulls me closer. Too close.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, and I’m so close I could sink my teeth in like I’ve been dying to.
His strong arms steady me as I teeter on my own two feet.
I glance up, and his eyes are dark, focused on me, as if the dance has become secondary to something much more intimate.
“Annie,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky.
I swallow hard, suddenly acutely aware of how close we are. My heartbeat is thudding in my ears, and I feel his breath on my skin as he leans down just a fraction closer.
We move together, our bodies in perfect sync now.
Nico’s hands glide with precision over my back, guiding me through the steps, but there’s something more, something electric in the way our bodies align.
I can’t help but notice how strong he feels beneath my touch, how steady and controlled his movements are.
“Now, lean into me,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper, guiding me into a dip. His hand slides lower on my back, the pressure firm, possessive, but gentle.
I lean into him, my chest pressing against his, and for a split second, I forget about the rest of the class, the music, everything around us.
All I can focus on is him—his hands, his lips that are just a breath away, his body that’s holding me steady.
The entire room has faded away, and there’s only him, his body against mine, the heat between us building.
When he pulls me back up, his hand doesn’t leave my waist, keeping me close. I’m breathless, my body buzzing with the closeness, the magnetic intensity. His eyes flicker to mine, the air thick with unspoken words.
“See?” Nico says, his grin back, but it’s different now. “Told you I could lead.”
I laugh, breathless, but there’s something undeniable in the air, palpable, something you could stick your tongue out and taste. “Yeah, well,” I say, “I think you might be leading Sister Annie down the wrong path.”
His smile softens, and for a moment, the world is still. He pulls me even closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Maybe. But I think Annie is more than willing to follow me wherever I go.”
The lights go dim. The music gets louder.
His lips graze my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.
The music swells, and I can feel the heat of his body with mine, the friction between us as we move, slow and steady, as if we’re the only two people in the room.
Our bodies are slick with sweat, the temperature rising, the rhythm of our movements mirroring the pulse building between us.
He’s half-hard, I feel it now, and I can’t help but press against it, thrilled and panting over the low groan in his throat and the slight thrust he gives back.
Our breaths are shallow and erratic. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.
A drop of sweat drips down his neck. It’s so close; it’s right there, and I have the uncontrollable urge to taste it.
Something takes over me, and I do. I lick it.
It’s delicious. Warm and salty, a little sweet, like the lingering taste of summer heat and something distinctly him.
There’s a hint of whatever soap he uses mixed with the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire.
Addictive—earthy, masculine, utterly consuming.
My tongue barely flicks over the spot, but the taste floods my senses, leaving me desperate for more.
He leans down, presses an open-mouthed kiss right under my ear, doing his own tasting.
He’s all but holding me up now; I’m trembling in his arms. “So,” he murmurs, his hand sliding lower on my back as he pulls me into the hard length of him again.
“Am I fuckin’ you in the car, or back at the house? ”