Thick Love

by Eden Butler

  “Everyone, jackass.” I had to give her credit, Aly didn’t cower away from me. Not when my temper flared and my voice got loud. Not when I stepped right in front of her, glaring at her with my top lip curling up. She just stood there, arms crossed, face tilted like no amount of warning would make her back down. “Besides, I said I’d give her a call. I just haven’t yet.”

  “That was days ago. And she needs help now.” This woman was unbelievable. Didn’t she get how desperate we were? Didn’t she understand help meant now?

  “She’s not my mother. Why don’t you help her?”

  “You think I don’t want to?”

  “Modi, I have no idea what you think. And I really don’t care.”

  “You’re a selfish, greedy…”

  “Hey, you grosoulye bata,” that cool attitude fractured just a little and when Aly’s bottom eyelid twitched and I saw a quick rush of anger, one that could probably match my own. She jabbed her finger in my chest and I let her, floored that she had to nerve to touch me. I didn’t quite get why I let it slide, why I didn’t brush her hand away. The anger in the room felt heavy and hot, like something you should avoid, but are too tempted to test how quickly you’ll be burned. Aly’s eyes were wide and the low light around us glinted against the gleam like glass. “You don’t know me. Don’t you dare start slinging insults at me.”

  “That’s enough. Stop it now.” Leann came between us, pushed me back a couple of steps. “You two are simmering. Too much energy.” Then that familiar slow grin pushed against Leann’s mouth and I knew she was going to ask me to do something that was sure to piss me off. She walked around me, gazing over my legs, my shoulders, judging me, like she hadn’t ever really seen me before. I felt like a horse being examined at auction. Aly’s back stiffened when Leann measured her up in the same way before she finally stood between us again, her grin transformed into something that reminded me of a super villain who was just moments away from monologuing his wicked, wicked plan. “You need to work out this frustration.”

  “No. I twisted my knee at practice.” I knew Leann well enough to pick up on her in the middle of a scheme. That grin lowered when I shook my head. “Besides, I’m more concerned with finding someone to help my mother.”

  “You’re barely limping and we’ll discuss Aly taking the job.” The small pat she brushed against my arm didn’t relax me, at all. “But for now, sit.”

  “Leann, I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

  “You make time, Ransom.” She stepped in front of me holding my arms so I wouldn’t just walk out of the room. “You promised to help me with the recital.”

  “So?”

  “So, Aly and I are thinking of adding a Kizomba number in the schedule.” She shrugged like that explanation was reason enough for me not to leave. “We need a male body and you know the basic steps. At least, you know the concept.” She pointed to the floor, nodding her head like she expected me to sit down.

  “Did you not hear the part where I said ‘no’?”

  Leann’s face was vacant, and she moved her eyebrows up, advertising that the little ‘I dare you to refuse again’ expression on her face was Leann at her fiercest. She was going to try a Guilt Card, one she must have thought I wouldn’t ignore. “A promise, Ransom. Remember that? Who promises to do something and then just flakes out?”

  Ouch. Giving me back my own insult stung a little more than it should have and I deflated, ignoring my cousin when that stupid grin made another appearance. Told you. I can’t take disappointing women. I was such a punk.

  “Sit down,” Leann said, pointing again at the spot just in front of the mirrored wall. “And watch us.”

  Aly’s face was unreadable, but I caught the tension in her eyes when she glanced at me before Leann moved to stand next to her. Both women went over the hip movements as they watched themselves in the mirror. Leann was smaller than Aly, but the younger woman had more natural rhythm. They both swayed, rolled their hips to practice the woman’s steps, the style and movements she’d make while performing the Kizomba.

  Then, they came together, Leann leading, their bodies maybe an inch apart. I watched Leann’s footwork, the slow, barely moving side to side steps of the male partner, each one matching the pulse of the music, understated, allowing the woman to subtly dazzle. It was mesmerizing, a controlled yet erotic seduction that shouldn’t have made me forget about Aly’s lie or the fact that my mother was virtually on her own with the little monster all day.

  For some reason I didn’t understand or even fully realize, I got lost in the music, that hypnotic sway of limbs and feet and the near erotic push of Aly’s hips constantly gyrating in a twist that shouldn’t be technically possible. This was a dance that called for connection and, grudgingly, I understood why Leann wanted us performing it. There is a very thin line between anger and passion, love and lust. Sometimes the quick pull of rage can be mistaken for the thrill of physical touch. I’d never understood that completely, not until I walked into this room and screamed at Aly, when my mind warred between trying to get her to somehow submit—something I’d never have asked of anyone—and wanting to be touched, wanting to submit myself. Maybe that was why that rage had been so surprising. I hadn’t felt anything close to it for so long and had missed the flame of it bubbling warm and comfortable in my stomach.

  Thin lines, thick lines, they sometimes got blurred and Leann knew that, probably bet on our anger to show itself in the dance.

  Doubt though, was stronger than my anger or passion and that’s what bumped in my mind when Leann waved me over, directing me to take Aly’s hand in mine. Leann did the directing—hips here, my hand on Aly’s back, elbow extended—it felt very clinical and formulaic, but then Aly pressed against me, so close that my thigh rested right between her legs and her body softened, came to me in answer to a question I’d never ask.

  “You need to lead, Ransom, that’s important and you and Aly need to be perfectly in synch. It’s a little bit of semba and a lot of seduction. All in the hips.” Leann guided and it only took me a moment for my body to remember rhythm, stance. I’d been the guinea pig so often that Leann’s instruction, her example, was easy to follow. I’d been doing that for years.

  “Ransom, get closer. Aly, show him.”

  And just like that, I felt the warmth of Aly’s center on my thigh and the push of her hips, that slow, slow movement of her grazing my dick. “What the fu…”

  “Take it easy, I’m not flirting.” She looked up at me, eyebrow cocked in a challenge. I noticed that shy, awkward way Aly had been around me in Leann’s office had disappeared, replaced by a professional, one that didn’t back down from me as I charged in the studio pissed off. “Can you do this?” She looked down at my sore knee.

  “I can lead.”

  “Wanna prove it?”

  I took the challenge from her eagerly, wanted to push that smug expression off her face, wanted, for some reason I couldn’t explain to myself, for her to know I could lead. I’d fucking lead and she’d follow willingly.

  Aly moved her hips, a slow, minuscule grind brushing against me, and then a subtle moving away, a seduction, a sensual game between woman and man. It was a sway I was supposed to follow, something that went deep and as I watched her, felt the tightness of her grip in my hand and the shake of her hips, the music came into me, that drumbeat thumping into my ears, demanding I follow. So, I did, not realizing that my temper had calmed until I felt the rhythm of my heart slowing.

  “Step on the one,” Aly said, nodding when I caught on. Still, she wouldn’t smile, as though she was only business, and when I turned, using my arms, the balls of my feet to guide her, I spotted how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut in the mirror behind us.

  “Closer,” I heard Leann say, then she pushed on our backs, bringing our middles together so that I could feel Aly’s ribs against my stomach as she breathed. “That’s it. Good, guys. It’s got to be slow, slower than a Tango.” Leann danced behind me, her hands o
n my waist guiding my movements. “That’s good, Ransom. Now, follow my lead. Aly will show you.”

  Leann slowed me with her hands and Aly inched back, holding onto my hand until we danced side by side, hip to hip, and just as quickly as she moved, Leann brushed my leg back with her foot, and Aly followed, curled around that extended leg with the back of her thigh, rubbing against the back of my leg as she arched into me. Her full breasts teased against my chest, nipples hardening and the only thought I had then was that she smelled good. Really good.

  Blinking, I told myself it was the music, the press of a firm body, the cooling of the anger that had stirred my blood. I didn’t want Aly, no matter how soft she felt or how easily she fit against me. Then Leann directed again, had me moving back, and Aly followed, her movements faster than mine, her body a dichotomy of curve and strength, a perfect complement to me.

  In my head I counted…one, two and three, two, two and three and let that be all that my mind could hold.

  “And the saida, Aly, show him.”

  And she did, a full five step movement, me walking back, her following again, all the while her hips moved like an invitation, a sweet call that my body heard. But I couldn’t be into this, not this woman, she wasn’t my type. She was defensive, cold. She never, ever smiled, not at me, I hadn’t seen that once. She had always been so rigid— from the way she walked and the distant attitude to the severe bun at the back of her head.

  But this Aly moved against me like a wave on the sand, bending into my hips, a brush of our bodies touching, working together like they were made to be and I couldn’t help but give in to the sensations that surrounded me. The music beating heavy, lulling like a drug, the tight press of her sinuous body, how easily she followed my movements, the smell of her hair, the warm moisture of her breath moving my collar. It was too much—so sudden, so unexpected and I blinked, realizing that the dancer from Summerland’s wasn’t the only who could get my body to pay attention. How was this happening…again? Grunting, I moved my hips away, then jerked my gaze to Aly’s face when her soft gasp registered that she, too, had noticed my body’s reaction.

  Unbelievable, I thought. Nothing for over a year and inside of a week and a half my dick started misbehaving.

  Closing my eyes, I exhaled, bent closer so only she could hear me when I spoke. “It’s not on purpose, but please don’t tell Leann. I’d never hear the end of it.”

  I felt her nod, that small gesture against my chest and then Aly looked up, only her eyes moving. They were hazel with the smallest hint of green around the edges.

  “Apologize,” she said, voice quiet but determined. My only response came from the lift of my eyebrows. “What?” she said, mouth still held in a line. “You were grosoulye...um, rude.”

  “And you are a liar.”

  When she slowed her movements, I pulled her in even closer. “If you stop, she’ll make us start all over again. I know you don’t want that and I sure as hell don’t want my cousin to know this dance gets me hard.”

  Curiosity must have edged her because Aly tilted her head, eyes sharp as she watched me and then pressed in with another hip roll that would have been a too damn familiar if we’d been naked. She didn’t smile, but I caught the small hint of a dimple on her left cheek when I kept pace with her.

  “Fine. But remember your form and remember, you have to feel it.” When I laughed, glanced down at my lap, Aly sighed like I was an idiot. “This dance is push and pull, Ransom. It’s a joining.” She slid her fingers over my heart, right across Emily’s face, and I shuddered when her fingernails grazed my nipple.

  I had limited interaction with Aly, but noticed that in the studio, in her element, there was no place for shyness or awkwardness. She instructed me, just as she did her students. I was supposed to listen, to learn and as Aly exhaled, as her voice came out demanding and sharp, I realized the woman was another person—fiercer, professional—when it came to dancing. “You have feel it here,” she said before she moved her hand to my hip, pulling me into a thrust I didn’t control, “and here. Like…like really good…”

  “Sex?” I asked, grinning when Aly looked away from me.

  “Modi,” she cursed. “Well, I suppose it is.” When she looked back up at me I swore I saw her light eyes deepen to a color that reminded me of whiskey. It was the first time I’d gotten close enough to really look in her eyes and see all the soft features her attitude and distance obscured.

  “Sex that is wet and warm,” she continued. I turned her, into another saida and we moved further away from Leann as we danced; thank God my cousin was concentrating on something on her phone and wasn’t watching us all that closely. Aly’s words pulled me back. “Sex that slips into her skin.” Aly closed her eyes, moved her fingers to my neck like she was remembering something too personal, too damn erotic to share with a stranger. For some reason, I didn’t pull away from her, too caught by the vivid image she was describing. “It gets so deep, feels so tight, that it hurts, just a little and you crave that pain.” She blinked and slowed her movements, pushing back as she arched into me. “That’s the best kind of sex, isn’t it? The kind that you can’t stop thinking about, you can’t stop feeling for days afterward.”

  My throat worked all on its own, like the dryness in my mouth would never be quenched. Aly’s features seemed to soften and for a moment there was only the roll of her hips and the low, tantalizing rhythm of the music and our heartbeats. My bottom lip felt thick when I bit it, and I nearly groaned, overcome by her description and the raw feel of her body when Aly took a breath that bunched her chest closer to me.

  Yeah, I had vague recollections about that kind of sex, but it wasn’t with my Emily I thought about when Aly painted that picture. It wasn’t even the dancer, though my vivid imagination cast her as my co-star in every dick-pulling fantasy I’d had over the past week. As she spoke, images heavy with sensation, it was Aly I imagined. This grumpy, rigid, remote woman. But just for a few seconds, with her body sliding against mine and her hips pretending to offer something I’d never be able to take, she became someone else. Something else.

  We stared at each other, quiet, breathes mingling together and I noticed she had a small freckle near her left eyebrow. Her smooth, soft skin reminded me of honey and cream mixing together, just as sweet, just as bad for me. Her nose was straight and sharp and those cheekbones were arched like they had been formed by the careful work and talent of an artist. She had the kind of features that reflected so many of the complex heritages of New Orleans: Spanish, Black, Creole, she could have come from any number of exotic, mysterious backgrounds. For the first time I realized, despite how cold she’d always seemed to me, that Aly was beautiful. Understated and guarded behind that aloof manner, but for the first time, I realized Aly was very, very beautiful.

  The slight rasp in her voice hinted that she wasn’t everything she wanted the world to believe her to be. She actually was more, much, much more, and the part of me who was a curious asshole with zero conscience wanted to find out what that might entail.

  But before I could say anything to her, even just for a second, Leann cleared her throat, then clicked the music off. Aly backed away from me as though she’d forgotten who I was or where she was, and that maybe she shouldn’t be enjoying our dance so much. Leann’s voice had definitely broken the moment—my dick deflated and my skin cooled—but it didn’t keep my eyes from following Aly as she walked away from me across that hardwood floor.

  “Aly, that was excellent. You think Tommy can help us out? He’s doing that internship in New York still, but won’t he be back from New York next month?” Aly’s glance at me did not go unnoticed. “No,” Leann said, answering Aly’s silent question, “Ransom’s very good, but this should be a professional performance. Besides, he’s got football and classes.”

  “Okay, but I want to work on the saida and add some dips. Who can I practice with until Tommy gets back?”

  Leann wasn’t remotely subtle with the look she gav
e me. I suddenly had an idea.

  “Look at me like that all you want, Leann. I still have my own shit. Unless, of course, Aly here,” I saw the woman shake her head when I nodded at her, “is willing to help out my mom. Then I can squeeze her into my schedule.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take the job, orto. I’ve just been…”

  “Will you do it?” Leann asked Aly, interrupting her.

  The twin expressions between me and my cousin—hers on the edge of begging, mine, I’m sure, smug and condescending—had Aly waffling. She fidgeted, likely battling the reality that Leann wanted Aly to learn the dance and I wanted my mom to rest and my little brother taken care of. Her frown dwindled, like someone who knew she had was facing defeat, and had to try to make the best bargain she could without holding any chips. My smile grew broad when she finally waved her hand in my general direction in an attempt at a ‘whatever’ attitude.

  “Fine, but it can only be every other day. I still have classes to teach and I work Tuesdays and Thursdays, plus every Saturday.” She stood with her back straight, barely glancing at me or my growing smirk.

  “Excellent,” I said unable to keep from looking happy and far too pleased with myself.

  Aly didn’t bother waving goodbye or saying anything more than an “I’ll call tomorrow” as she left the studio.

  “You really are a brat sometimes, you know that, right?” Leann said as picked up her bag and turned the lights off in the studio.

  “Why?” I pulled my cousin toward me with an arm over her shoulder. “Because I got a sitter for Koa?”

  “No,” she stopped, elbowing me so I kept the door opened for her. “Because you used that thing to get it.”

  “What thing? Charm? Cunning?”

  “I believe Keira always referred to it as Hale Demon Magic.”

  “Well, shit Leann, I can’t deny that one.”

  Robert Burns compared his love to a red, red rose. The meaning behind the giving of those flowers was universal. Florists made a killing off the sentiment of their meaning, and poets have talked about their symbolism for centuries.