“Yeah, cool. That’s it, baby. You go, girl.” He bounced me back, knocking me into the guy behind me.
“Ugh!” I tried to catch my breath.
The spaced-out loser echoed, “Cool, man,” then bounced me in another direction.
“Who-whoo-whoo-whooooo,” I called out, feeling like Tigger in the middle of a Winnie the Pooh pinball game. I might not have kids, but even I knew who Tigger was. These people were insane if they called this dancing. What happened to playing “real” music and dancing like normal people, not mosh pit burnouts.
When I could no longer take boinking, bonking, and be-bopping around the dance floor, I squeezed my way through the crowd to the D.J.’s booth and made a request. The D.J. stared at me as though I were the one on drugs, then shrugged and complied with my request.
As I reached the center of the dance floor, the music came to a screeching stop, and a hush fell over the crowd. When salsa music poured through the speakers, the crowd cleared the floor like someone had let a skunk loose amongst them.
Great. I hated being the center of attention. I began to perspire, but I looked more ridiculous just standing there, so I started tapping my foot to the rhythm, then shaking my insecurity to the beat.
Those who’d started to turn away, jerked back to stare as if I were from Mars. Clapping my hands, moving my hips, wiggling my fanny, and stomping my feet, I twisted and turned, having no idea what I was doing. I let the music fill my soul, closed my eyes, and let my body take over.
Now this was dancing.
An arm snaked around my waist, and my eyes popped open. I gasped. Dylan stared down at me with an angry expression and a hard smile on his handsome face.
“If you’re going to make a display out of yourself, at least be smart about it. Choose a partner first. You nearly caused a riot over there.”
The music changed to another song with a livelier Latin beat, and he moved me in a series of expert steps. I blinked. Hot Britches knew how to salsa? My breathing quickened, but then his words registered. I skimmed over the crowd. Where was Bart? All I saw were several angry men, chomping at the bit to dance with me.
Me!
First I felt surprised, then flattered, then embarrassed, and finally confused. I’d only meant to have a little fun. Make Dylan sweat a little. At the time, it had seemed like a better idea than getting bruised in the Tigger Bounce. Now, I wasn’t so sure.
Focusing on Dylan, I realized he didn’t just know how to salsa, he was amazing at it. Suddenly, nothing else mattered as I stared into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. His lashes lowered, and that crooked grin of his hooked the corner of his full lips. He pulled me in close, hip to hip, his leg between mine, doing a series of sexy steps, then dipping me low.
“Wh-What are we doing?” I wheezed.
“The Dirty Salsa,” he said in a throaty whisper next to my ear.
“You’re very, um, good at Dirty.”
He chuckled, and his hard, sinewy muscles relaxed against mine. “Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself at whatever all that hip-gyrating, fanny-wiggling dancing you were doing earlier was called.”
I smiled back, realizing how much I’d missed this rapport between us. “Thanks. It’s called the Closet Salsa.”
“You amaze me, Mac.”
“Ditto,” I said breathlessly, then cleared my throat. “Hey, it beat the Tigger Boink, Bonk, Be-bop.”
We both laughed.
Lord, it felt good to be in his arms again. The music changed to a slow song, and he pulled me closer, moving me in ways I hadn’t known were possible. My lips parted, and his breathing became as heavy as mine. He looked down at me with smoldering eyes. Oh, mama, this was much better than my teenage fantasy of dirty dancing with Patrick Swayze.
Licking his lips, Dylan leaned in, and my stomach bucked. I closed my eyes and puckered my lips, waiting. Wanting. Wilting.
“What the?” Dylan yelled.
I opened my eyes and watched a giant of a man yank him back. “My turn.”
Khaki Man was supposed to set up another phony crony to hit on me, one final episode so I could show Dylan once and for all that I could take care of myself. But, darn it, I wasn’t ready for the crony to interfere just yet.
I only had myself to blame, but I was so over the payback episodes and ready to move on. I was about to say so when Hot Britches turned into Super Cop once again.
“Give it up, pal. The Lady isn’t doing anything with you.” Dylan took a step in my direction.
“The lady will do whatever I tell her to do.” The giant took a swing at Dylan, but Dylan ducked just in time, then rammed his shoulder into the giant’s gut.
Oh, Khaki Man, this goes beyond getting even with me. Time to get this over with. “The lady can speak for herself.” I flew into action, pushing Dylan out of the way, then whipping off my spiked heel and circling the giant, briefly wondering what produce he could possibly be. Summer squash?