Damian nods too, which means this should be even better. We’ll learn the steps and have fun.
Mario moves amongst the couples, chatting, smiling, taking clipboards. We’re the last couple to arrive, and after we finish filling out our form and slip our payment for the class into the bucket on the desk, Mario claps his hands and calls the class to order.
We all move to stand in front of him, and a dark-haired woman in a black fit and flare dress and shiny black T-straps steps out of a door I hadn’t noticed in the corner, coming to stand beside Mario. He takes her hand. “This is Susana. She’ll be helping me teach the class. First we’ll start with basic steps side by side like this, then we’ll work with partners.”
The basic salsa step is simple, and after going through it a few times, Mario has us work with our partners. When I turn to face Damian, he holds his arms up in the perfect frame, his steps are sure, and the pressure of his hand on my back and on my hand, guiding me through the steps, makes it clear he’s done this before. After going through the steps with basic counts with partners, Mario turns on the music.
Damian leads me through the basic steps, his eyes twinkling.
“You’ve done this before,” I accuse him.
He grins. “I grew up with dancing as a part of family get togethers. I learned to dance with both of my sisters, my cousins, and helped teach all their friends. My brother too. I can salsa and merengue, which is even easier.” As though to prove his point, he lifts his hand and spins me once, bringing me back in closer to his body.
“Ah!” Mario exclaims, wagging a finger at us. “You don’t need lessons. You could probably teach the class as well as I could.”
Damian just shrugs and smiles.
Mario shakes his head, leaving us to dance as he helps the other couples, who are having varying levels of success.
Smile still in place, Damian limits himself to the basic step, even though he could clearly do a lot more. “You seem to catch on to it quick, though. What kind of dancing have you done?”
“Oh, uh …” How do I answer this without giving too much away? “I grew up taking dance lessons. Jazz, tap, and ballet.” All true. My mom put me in my first dance class when I was three. And I started piano lessons when I started Kindergarten. Can I leave it at that?
He nods. “Cool. Did you continue with them for long?”
“A while.” I’m saved from having to expand on my answer by Mario cutting off the music and introducing the proper way to execute a turn. Even though Damian already knows what he’s doing, I appreciate seeing the demonstration of the best way for me to step. It’s not much different from many of the turns I’ve done on stage over the years, but doing it in a less formal atmosphere and with a partner adds a different dimension to the steps. We practice a few times without music before Mario turns it on again, giving us all a chance to practice working the turn in with the basic steps.
Damian turns me more than any of the other couples, the showoff. Mario catches his eye, smiling and shaking his head. Susana smiles and gives us a thumbs up.
The rest of the lesson is more of the same—Mario and Susana demonstrating another new thing, practicing without music, and then with music, giving enough tools to be able to dance competently during the open dance.
When a few people start filing in carrying instruments and equipment and setting up in the corner, Mario wraps up the class. “Thank you all so much for coming. Please stay for the open dance. If you feel like you need it, come again for another class. We also offer private lessons for those of you who’d like more personalized instruction. And the open dance with live music happens every Thursday evening.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Scherzo: A light, "joking" or playful musical form, originally and usually in fast triple metre, often replacing the minuet in the later Classical period and the Romantic period, in symphonies, sonatas, string quartets and the like; in the 19th century some scherzi were independent movements for piano, etc.
Damian
I lead Charlie over to the desk now laden with plastic water bottles, cans of soda, wrapped cookies, and candy bars. I stuff two more dollars into the coffee can, a little surprised at Mario’s trust in the honor system for both his class fee and refreshments. More people filter in as we drink our water, groups and couples, some looking around like they’re new here, but others as comfortable as if they were in a friend’s living room.
I nod to the candy bars and cookies. “Want anything else?”
Charlie shakes her head, swallowing more water. “I’m still good from dinner. We can grab a snack after if we work up an appetite.”
My eyes scan over her again, without me even meaning to. With her dressed like that, there’s no doubt I’ll be working up an appetite. It just might not be for food.
She gives me a wicked grin around the mouth of her water bottle like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I don’t disguise my smirk, because the truth is, I’m sure she does know what I’m thinking. I haven’t exactly been subtle about checking her out. But damn. Who can blame me? With the way that skirt flares up every time I spin her … Did she take my advice about the yoga shorts? I don’t know if I hope she did or hope she didn’t. The possessive caveman part of me doesn’t want anyone else seeing what’s under her skirt. But how hot would it be if I had easy access? The things I could do to her in a dark corner, the bathroom, the car …
Looking out over the crowd, I force myself to think about anything else. I don’t need a tent in my pants before we’ve even started. Boxer briefs can only do so much to keep the beast from being too obvious. The band tuning and warming up is a good distraction. The keyboard player gives a B flat to the trumpets, who play together, both adjusting their slides, playing a quick note to check. Satisfied, they fall back into easy conversation, chatting and laughing as they quickly press their fingers into the valves the way trumpet players everywhere do before they play. They aren’t exactly in tune, but they’re only off by a degree from each other, so I guess it’s okay. Hopefully they won’t be playing in unison. Or Charlie’s body will be enough distraction to keep me from caring. Or maybe their intonation problems will keep me distracted enough that I won’t be tempted to rip off whatever Charlie’s wearing under her skirt.
Which brings me back full circle to where I started. Dammit.
I focus on the percussionists who are laying out the small instruments on a towel on a horizontal music stand, the drum set player also getting out a variety of brushes, sticks, and mallets.
One of the trumpet players leans in close to the bass player, then the keyboard and percussion, obviously the leader of the group. With nods all around, the lead trumpet brings his instrument to his lips. With a breath and a quick upbeat from his horn, he cues the group, and they all come in together. Despite the slight differences in tuning between the trumpets, they’re good. They play well, the percussion keeping them all together, the rhythm infecting the blood, making me need to move my feet and hips. With Charlie.
I down the last of my water and turn to Charlie in time to see her do the same. Our eyes lock, and I toss the plastic bottles in a bin against the wall, taking her by the hand and leading her onto the dance floor. We’re not the only ones affected by the need to move to the rhythm now pulsing through the space. Several other couples are already dancing, all people who came in after class. They all know what they’re doing, hips moving, skirts twirling, bodies pressing together. Charlie is easy to lead. She dances like she’s been doing this her whole life, not just some dance classes as a kid. She mastered the footwork before we even practiced with music. Her hips sway just right with the beat. She’s not stiff like the other first time salsa dancers, who are tentatively joining everyone on the floor.
Not wanting to get too carried away too soon, I keep a firm frame, maintaining space between Charlie and me. I guide her through a turn, ending with a spin, bringing her back to the frame of my arms. Gentle pressure on her back and a shift of my grip is all it ta
kes to communicate what I want her to do. It’s nothing like dancing with my sisters or cousins, who never want to follow my lead, or their friends who are stiff and uncoordinated. They usually loosened up over the course of their impromptu dance lesson at one of our family get togethers. But never have I danced with anyone like this. Charlie dances like a pro.
She laughs as I spin her again, then twirl her out, our arms extended between us for a second. When I bring her in, her back is to my front, our dance suddenly more intimate. Like this, the scent of her shampoo tickles my nose, light floral notes, layered with her vanilla body spray and her own particular scent. When she wiggles her ass against me, the chub I’ve been sporting since the lesson gets fully hard. She throws a grin at me over her shoulder, and I give her a dark look as I spin her out again, but I can’t help the stupid smile on my face.
As much as the way she looks and the way she teases me is a form of torture, it’s also fun. I haven’t had this much fun out in I don’t know how long. I tend to be more of a homebody, spending my time away from home in classes and the practice rooms. But if I could do this with Charlie all the time, I’d go out a lot more often.
This time when I spin her out and bring her back into the frame, I pull her more tightly against me. Lowering my head, I speak directly into her ear. “You know, part of the reason guys like to take girls salsa dancing is so they can ply them with alcohol and spin them around until they’re dizzy and easily seduced.”
She laughs as I spin her again. With her body plastered against mine, it’s harder to keep up with the specific steps of the dance, and we mostly move our hips in time to the music. “You think I need to be seduced?”
I shrug. “Seducing you is fun. Even if it’s not necessary.”
Her answering grin radiates happiness, and her hand slips from my shoulder to my neck, pulling my mouth to hers. “Consider me seduced,” she whispers into my ear after breaking the kiss.
Closing my eyes, I clench my jaw and suck in a breath. “Does that mean you’re ready to go?”
Her eyes glint with promise when I open mine to find them. She gives the barest nod, and that’s all it takes to have me dragging her off the dance floor after barely thirty minutes of dancing. It’s time for the next phase of our celebration.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Glissando: a continuous sliding from one pitch to another.
Charlie
Damian’s long legs eat up the sidewalk on the way to the car, and I take quick steps, a cross between a trot and a jog in my heels. He has our jackets bundled over his arm, the cold air of a mid-October evening fresh and welcome on my overheated skin. But it does nothing to cool the fire that Damian’s touch ignites.
When we get back to his car, instead of opening my door like I expect, he backs me against it, his arms caging me in, the cold steel of the car at my back seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt a stark contrast to the heat Damian’s throwing off at my front. One hand snakes down and slips under my skirt, palming my ass, pressing my pelvis to his, where I can feel him hard and ready through the frothy layers of my skirt.
He makes a low sound of approval as his fingers trace along the edge of my yoga shorts just below my buttocks. “So you did wear shorts under your skirt.”
“You told me to.”
His eyes flash and his chin dips. “Do you do everything you’re told?”
I lift my chin to meet his heated gaze. “Depends on who’s telling.”
His hand grips my ass again. “What do you have on under your shorts?”
“Nothing.”
He grinds into me again. “Christ, Charlie. You’re going to kill me.”
At my grin, he lets out a low, growly sound. “In the car. Take the shorts off.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
He nods once and reaches for the door handle behind me, pulling me away from the car to open my door and tilting his head toward my seat. “Keep your skirt down. But shorts off.”
I suck in a breath and climb in, lift my hips, and reach under my skirt, doing my best not to show anything as I peel my tight shorts down my thighs after he closes my door. Darkness and the car provide a good cover, the orange glow of the street lamps not shining enough light to see what I’m doing through the windows, even if anyone were to walk past our parking spot.
A blast of cold air as Damian opens the door to climb in has me pushing my skirt down, more aware than ever of the press of the upholstery against my bare legs. And the wetness gathering between my thighs.
Damian starts the car and glances at me, his eyes landing on the fabric balled in my right hand, and a feral grin takes over his face as he smoothly pulls out of the parking space and drives away from downtown. He waits until we’ve navigated the turns and stoplights of downtown and hit the main road to his house before his hand finds my knee. His long fingers slide to the inside of my thigh, circling slowly upward, his palm pressing enough to let me know he wants me to open my legs, which have been tightly pressed together since I took my shorts off.
When I open a few inches, he hooks his fingers under my leg, lifting it up and over, so I’m spread open, my knee pressing into the console between us. His hand disappears under my skirt, and I close my eyes, pressing my head back against the headrest as his fingers tease the crease where my leg joins my body. I suck in a breath when he brushes across me, open and waiting.
“Jesus, Charlie. You’re soaked already, and I’ve barely touched you.”
I open my eyes and look at him, glancing down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “I’m not the only one turned on by dancing.” Deciding two can play this game, I reach over and palm him over the fabric of his pants.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. “You really are going to kill me if you’re not careful.”
Without removing my hand, I lean closer to him, which has the effect of pushing his fingers directly onto my clit, one fingertip delving just inside my opening. I squeeze him more out of reaction than conscious thought. “You’ve never gotten road head?” I ask, the words coming out almost broken rather than sultry and seductive like I wanted.
His nostrils flare, and his hand jerks against my core. “Jesus, Charlie.” His voice is a tortured whisper. “No.” He swallows again. “You ever done that for anyone?”
“No. But I wouldn’t mind making you the first.”
He makes a choked sound, and I whimper as his hand leaves the sweep of my skirt, his fingers circling my wrist and pulling my hand away. “We’re almost to my house.” He takes a deep breath like he’s trying to regain control. “I need you to keep your hands—and mouth,” a glance at me to punctuate that statement, “to yourself until we get to my room.”
When I try to reach for him, just to see what he’ll do, his hand tightens around my wrist again. “Charlie,” he grinds out.
“Damian.” I imitate his tone of warning, and he glances at me, a smile pulling at his lips. I grin back. “You started it.”
He shakes his head, placing my hand in my lap and returning his own hand to the steering wheel, which he grips tight enough that the skin over his knuckles pales.
His house is dark when we park in front of it, no other cars around. This must be why he chose to come home instead of going to my place. My bed is bigger, and I have an en suite bathroom, so we usually end up there. But if he wants guaranteed time alone and he knows his roommates are somewhere else, we come here.
He ushers me inside, locking the front door behind us, and directly into his room, not pausing to turn on any lights. Once inside his room, he backs me up to the bed, tipping my face up for a quick, dizzying kiss. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, finds mine, and then retreats, stealing my breath with it. He pushes me gently so I sit down on the bed. Crossing to the dresser, he lights a small pillar candle. There are three on the dresser and two more on the bedside table, these in jars. His room glows with candlelight.
“You’ve been planning this,” I s
ay as he sets the lighter back on his dresser.
He turns to me with a dismissive shrug. “I’ve been planning to have you here again eventually. I like the candlelight, but one isn’t enough. I like being able to see you.”
“I love it,” I breathe, and he moves to me on the bed, his hands sliding under my top and lifting. I raise my arms over my head, setting to work on the buttons on his shirt once my top clears my head. I only get through three of them before he interrupts me again, pulling my bra straps down my arms. And when his hands cup my breasts, lifting them so he can bend and take them in his mouth, I can’t get to his buttons anymore. So I lean back on my hands, thrusting my chest out to him, letting him have his way with my breasts. His fingers knead, caress, and stroke as his tongue circles one nipple, then the other, his lips closing over them one at a time, quick sucks as he pulls back till they pop out of his mouth. My head lolls back between my shoulders, my eyes closed as I enjoy the attention.
“God, Damian. I want your mouth on me everywhere. And I want to touch you. And I want …”
My eyes pop open. “I want you in my mouth.” I sit up, my hands going to his shoulders to push him back a little. “Hurry up and get naked. We’re going to sixty-nine.”
His eyes widen. “Charlie …” There’s hesitation in his voice, but I’m not sure why, so I push past it.
“No arguing. I promise you can finish where and how you like. If you don’t want to come in my mouth, that’s fine. I know you love blowjobs. And I want to taste you. But I also need you to keep touching me. Clothes off.”
His lips press together as his fingers gently start to undo the buttons on his shirt, but when I shimmy out of my skirt, all reluctance leaches out of his face. That’s more like it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Broken Chords (Songs and Sonatas Book 4) Page 14
