Uneasiness squeezed my stomach. “W-what are you doing?”
“Skipping down memory lane.” He cranked up the volume and spoke over the bass. “Recognize that?”
“What are you doing?” I repeated, warily.
“I taught you cha-cha and salsa on this song. For that contest you entered. You did a solo. Remember?”
As if I could ever forget. Back then, Trace danced rings around some of the professionals on TV. He was self-taught. A natural. So when he agreed to choreograph a routine for my junior high talent show, I’d rejoiced. Every day during spring break, he’d instructed me with such patience and skill that, although Eddie Gray’s little sister Nina won the competition, I placed third—a solid achievement for a girl with three left feet.
Those endless hours of dancing were intense, yet I’d never had so much fun, never felt so alive and free until Trace. Only in his eyes, I was just a silly girl with a crush. Never once did he give me reason to believe otherwise, but that was then and this was….
Unease ballooned to panic. “Um, it’s late. I’d better go.”
“Not so fast.” He angled around and extended a hand. “May I have this dance, Miz Bradford?”
“What? No.”
“Why not?” He crooked a brow. “You scared?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Then prove it.” He moved his body in time with the pounding rhythm. “Dance partnering is one of the truest expressions of trust, and you trust me, right? Or were you just blowing smoke up my ass?”
I tore my eyes from his gyrating pelvis. “No, but—”
“Good. So let’s dance.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Foreplay
SHANNON
____________________________
I’d scarcely opened my mouth to protest again, before he’d hauled me to the dance floor. He took me into his arms with a commanding, yet gentle tug.
Though he towered over me and several inches separated his naked chest from my chin, the heat radiating from his body hit me on full blast. He smelled of soap, male intensity, and a dangerous unknown.
A shiver sliced through me once he propped my left hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was like raw silk pulled taut over hot steel. Bracing his large palm along my back, he threaded the fingers of the other with my free hand.
“We’ll start with the basics and work our way up,” he said, leaning in to speak. “We’re doing cha-cha first, okay? Left foot side, right foot back. Got it?”
I gave a stilted nod as he began.
“No, not with your heel. Step with the ball of your foot,” he said. “Yeah, like that. And one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—three—loosen those hips. Stop slouching and hold the frame. Head up. Shoulders back. Outstanding.” Less than a minute into it, he did an underarm turn. “Good. Two—three—cha-cha—ouch.”
“S-sorry.”
He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Remember, you’re the plane, but I’m the pilot. Stop steering and let me lead. When we’re out here, your body belongs to me.” His confident gaze captured mine. “This is about trust, okay?”
I nodded, trying to ignore my pounding heart. Trust wasn’t an issue when I was young and naïve, but now? To surrender control, even for something as trivial as a dance, was against my nature. Yet if I wanted to gain his trust, I had to give mine unreservedly. So I yielded, surrendering to him little by little, and once he’d taken full control, the change was extraordinary.
We began to move as one.
Where he led, I followed, easily reading his body language—be it a look, the angle of his shoulders, or the pressure of his touch. All these and many other nonverbal prompts conveyed where and how he wanted me. And every time I pleased him, he’d flash a grin that transformed his face. His smiles were so rare that when he gave them, the contrast was stunning.
“You up for a swivel?” he asked after a couple minutes.
A smile preceded my nod.
“Okay, and one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—uh-huh, that’s it. Now, swivel, swivel, swivel. God, that’s sexy!” He whirled me around. “Let’s try the quarter-turn, chasse, and—oh, hot damn. You got it! See, it’s like riding a bike.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “I can’t believe I still remember this stuff.”
“I can.” Trace winked, then spun me out and tugged me back. “You always were a quick study.”
He maneuvered me into a crossover break and another spin once the end of the song neared. On the fourth pass, the music shifted to Marc Anthony’s “I Need To Know,” but Trace sustained the rotation, transitioning me to salsa so seamlessly, I didn’t miss a step. By now, I’d become an extension of his body, and oh, what a body it was. Absent a shirt, his hard muscles were on full display, rippling beneath his golden skin. I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way he moved. He controlled himself, and me, with breathtaking ease.
We were both slick with sweat when “I Need To Know” melted into Jennifer Connelly’s evocative version of “Sway,” but I wasn’t the least bit tired. The song had a slower pace and a mesmerizing rhythm that seduced me like the Lorelei of old.
Trace did a cross body lead, spun me three more times, only to stop on a dime and dip me so low, my ponytail nearly touched the floor. He hung over me, our bodies fused together, our eyes never losing contact. His breath mingled with mine and sweat bonded our skin, giving rise to a slow burning ache within me that grew hotter by the second.
Just when I thought I’d catch fire, he drew me back up, then sank to his knees and dragged his fingers down my ribcage. I raised my arms and writhed above him while he gripped my hips, moving them from side to side.
His bewitching touch, the sexy way he danced, and the flame that ignited whenever our eyes met, all chipped away at my inhibitions.
The instant the music shifted to a melodic Josh Groban ballad, Trace rose like a coiled snake charmed from its nest. He whipped me around, gave me a sharp tug, and pressed the thickness beneath the metal teeth of his fly into my back. Even as my brain screamed at me to pull away, I’d laced the fingers of one hand with his and melted against his body. I was lost in the moment, lost in his touch, totally lost in him.
We weren’t doing salsa anymore. This was something quite different. This was…foreplay. “Yeah, just like that,” he whispered. “Now slow it down and follow my lead.”
His ‘lead’ was hard, long, and pressed firmly against my spine. Even so, I did as I was told, moving just as he moved, until the music wrapped around us so completely nothing but the dance existed. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the heat, to the drums, and to the hard body moving so sensuously against mine.
As we slowly swayed together, Trace unclipped my hair and separated the French braid, so the locks fell freely past my shoulders. He pocketed the barrette, brushed my hair aside, and snagged a leisurely whiff of my neck.
“You know,” he murmured in a husky rumble, “twelve years of bunking with animals makes a man appreciate a woman’s scent. And I love yours.” He filled his nose again. “That perfume. It’s Poison, right?”
How could he possibly know? “Yes,” I managed, trying to breathe past the elephant on my chest.
“Well,” he said, “you’d think the name alone would ward me off, but as you can see, I’m not going anywhere.” He drew me closer, shooting ripples through my body. His boldness both frightened and thrilled me. “By the way, ever heard this song?”