I sense him before I spot his reflection in the window.
Rising to my full height, I turn around.
“Don’t stop.” Cole prowls toward me, barefoot, shirtless, the fly of his jeans left unbuttoned, and his hair a damp, sexy mess.
“Did you just get out of the shower?” I sway my hips, slow and steady beneath his perusal.
“Yep.” He circles me, his hooded gaze touching every inch of my body, from my flirty smile and sports bra to my tiny dance shorts and bare legs. “I went for a run.”
He and Trace run every day, making use of the trails on the wooded property. Sometimes, they run together.
I glance at the closed door. This is the first time one of them stepped in here since the day they punished me.
Cole follows my gaze. “Trace is holed up in the office on work calls all day.”
“He said you would be dividing up your time with me. Is that what this is?”
“Yes. I wanted you to have a few days to yourself.” He looks around the studio with pride in his eyes. “How’s the space working out?”
“I love it, Cole.” A gushy grin lifts my cheeks. “I don’t ever want to leave.”
“I like the sound of that.”
The song ends, and the recognizable beats of Yeah by Usher pumps through the room. Seized by the tempo, I move on instinct. Hips, torso, arms—my body knows the catchy rhythm and loves it.
An impish smile steals over Cole’s mouth.
I step backward, bouncing and swinging my arms overhead. “What?”
“I’m going to smack that.”
“This?” I slide a hand over my rear as I dip to the floor and slide back up.
“Yeah.”
“Come get me.” I reverse through the room, jumping to the electronic beats and popping my movements.
He chases, his expression so intensely hungry it makes me feel giddy, alive, and wildly turned on. When he catches me by the windows, he spins me toward the ballet bar. Then he moves in, syncs our hips, and grinds with the music.
His bare chest burns against my back, his mouth hot on my neck, and his hands roam everywhere. Bodies pressed tightly together, we move as one, rocking, grabbing, and panting. It’s the sound of our breaths that really gets me going. His is labored and shallow, telling me he wants me as badly as I want him.
Perspiration slicks his skin as his chiseled physique bunches and plays around me. He’s hard, so damn long and swollen pressed against me, and I can’t stop thinking about that unfastened button. And the zipper that needs tugging. And the underwear I know he’s not wearing.
His body is made for sex, and he dances like he’s mating. Hips thrusting, hands squeezing flesh, he leads, and I follow. He pulls, and I give. Then I break away, spinning around him in teasing circles.
He watches me like a predator, his eyes drunk on desire, and his kiss-shaped mouth beckoning me. Utterly possessed by him, I drift closer with fire in my belly. He snatches me by the waist, aligns our bodies chest to chest, and rolls our hips. Then he crushes his mouth against mine.
We kiss for a moment that carries on forever, in an airless space, dancing as one body, skin sliding, limbs entangled, and hearts wild.
God, I love his lips. Our story was born there, on his dimpled smile. Every kiss we share validates what we knew the day we met. He’s my first love as I am his. We’re a constellation of fate, love spiraling to death to lies to love, and despite it all, we continue to spin with stars in our eyes.
We dance through several songs, kissing and grinding until my lungs burn and my mouth goes numb. I feel like more than flesh and bone when I’m in his arms, like I’m one half of something momentous. Like I’m an elemental part of something so rare and untouchable only a few people in the world ever experience it.
“I want to learn the dance you choreographed.” He nuzzles my neck and spans his hands over my backside.
“Which dance?”
“The one I should’ve learned four years ago.”
Our first dance.
The dance that never happened.
My heart trips as I envision a dream I thought I’d buried with his ashes.
A marriage to my first love.
A wedding dance.
With Cole.
As warm, gooey hope flutters through in my veins, another emotion knocks inside me, crashing everything to a halt.
Fear.
As much as I love the idea—the ballroom, white dress, tuxedo, wedding rings, and our smiles as we twirl through the room—all my happiness shatters when fear shoves its way in, that jealous whore.
Cole hurt me in the past, and he could do it again. I’m so attached to this dance, and teaching him the steps could deepen my attachment to him. What if he knows that and this is just a ploy to outmaneuver Trace? What if I teach him and give the dance to Trace in the end? I can’t do that to Cole.