Kristin Hardy - Hot Moves

He stepped closer. “Now, about that paying attention,” he murmured and Thea’s pulse bumped and sped up.

He was tall, she realized. She stood nearly six foot in her bare feet and had grown accustomed to towering over men, especially in high-heeled dance shoes. With Brady, she found herself looking up.

Taking a breath, she put her hand on his shoulder. And swallowed. It didn’t matter that she was only touching the cotton of his shirt. Somehow, all she was conscious of was the feel of the hard rise of muscle beneath.

“Gentlemen, put your right hand on the lady’s shoulder blade.”

His gaze fixed on hers, Brady pressed his hand in place and it was all she could do not to gasp.

He flashed a wicked smile. “Sorry, is my hand cold?”

It wasn’t cold at all, and he damned well knew it. Heat spread out from the extravagance of the fingers spread on her bare skin. It felt startlingly intimate. They were in public, among a throng of people. So how was it that she could only think of darkened bedrooms, of how it would feel to have that hand slide over her bare body?

Snap out of it, she told herself.

“Now join your other hands and space yourselves about six to eight inches apart. As you’ve seen, Argentine tango tends to be danced in a tight, closed position, with the inner thighs of the lady and gentleman pressed together. Those of you who like, step closer.”

Eyes staring unwaveringly into hers, Brady moved against her. “I like,” he murmured, close enough that she could feel the breath of his words. His fingers tightened slightly on her back, bringing her closer. “Yeah, I like a lot.”

Her heart hammered madly in her chest. He was too close, too hot, too there . “Easy, big fella,” she said as evenly as she could muster. “It’s just a dance.”

Yet his touch overtook her focus. She needed to concentrate on something safe, Thea thought in a panic. Not those eyes, not those green, green eyes with their glint of humor, not those eyes that made her want. And if she didn’t look there, she’d find her gaze slipping down to his mouth, which was way too near. Every time she looked there she found herself wondering what it would feel like to brush her lips against his, wondering how he’d taste. Wondering what he’d do if she leaned in out of the blue and pressed her mouth to his.

Ridiculous, she thought impatiently. The man was a stranger, they were at a milonga . It was absurd.

And she couldn’t stop wanting it.

So she focused on the point of his jaw. Nice. Safe. Square and strong, darkened a little with a day’s growth of beard. If she leaned in and put her face against it, it would be rough, warm. And it would put her closer to that clean scent that didn’t seem to have a thing to do with conventional colognes. Maybe shampoo or soap? Whatever it was, if she could get a deep, deep breath of it she thought maybe she could die happy.

The music caught her by surprise when it began. She found him looking down at her in amusement. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He leaned in. “Better focus,” he said softly in her ear. “Teachers can’t get distracted.”

With every step, she could feel his torso shift, as though beneath his clothes his body were stripped down to muscle and sinew and bone. With every step, she became only more aware of him against her. And it sent her mind vaulting along carnal pathways, speculating if this was what it would be like to have him pressed against her naked, on top of her, so that she could feel his every movement as he poised himself over her, bringing all that heat and want and tension and lust—

“Okay, ready for me?”

She stared at him. “What?”

“My hot move.”

She gave an uneven laugh. “Sure.”

Looking down a bit, he led her through the eight-count basic that Robyn had taught them. Thea watched his face. He was concentrating on his feet, his lead, working his way through each segment of the figure. His lashes were darker than she’d expected, a sheaf of his hair hanging down over his forehead. “And, done.” His eyes flicked up to meet hers.

She felt the jolt all the way to her toes.

“Good memory,” she managed, unable to look away.

“You think I’m good at the eight-count basic, just give me a try on something else.”

Thea had a pretty good idea he wasn’t talking about tango anymore. She stared up at him, watched desire replace the humor, desire overtake everything. He bent his head toward her—

And the song ended.

For a moment neither of them moved, caught in a frozen tableau of awareness, lips a hairsbreadth apart.

Thea moistened her lips. “I should…dance with someone else now.”

“Do you want to?” he asked, not looking away as a new song started.

“It’s not a question of want…”

“Then don’t. Stay with me.” And he pulled her back into his arms.

NIGHT HAD TRULY FALLEN now, the moon high overhead. They danced in the dappled shade of the trees. She was extraordinary, Brady thought, looking down at her as they moved through the steps. Shadows pooled dark in the hollow of her collarbone, her shoulder itself milk pale in the moonlight. Beneath his fingertips, her skin was bewitchingly soft. If he stretched more he could press his lips against it, inhale that subtle scent of hers, something that wrapped around his senses and evoked images of candlelit Buenos Aires cafés with slow moving fans turning up by the ceiling.

He could feel his pulse beating the slow thud of demand, like some clock measuring off the moments until they could be together, alone. He thought of the look in her eyes when the first song had ended, a heady mix of arousal, want and seductive surrender. He wanted, needed to see it again—when she was under him, taut and twisting with desire.

The music died away and a new song began. The milonga was quieting now, couples spreading out. They’d danced their way to the edge of the area, he saw. “Want to take a break?” he asked.

Thea glanced at the couples. As far as Brady could tell, they seemed to be doing fine. “Maybe for a few minutes.”

The two of them walked slowly toward the river walk. Behind them, the music continued. On the pavement, away from the lights, things were quieter, more peaceful. Across the Willamette, lights glimmered, making reflections on the dark water.

“It’s so beautiful,” Thea murmured. “Most places, they’d cram office buildings and condos and hotels along here.”

“Used to be a freeway, then they shut it down and turned it into a park.”

“Bravo. Usually it’s the other way.”

His teeth gleamed in the half-light. “That’s Portland. Hell of a town.”

“Are you from here?”

“Born and raised. I guess that makes me biased.”

“Maybe just a little.”

“So how about you? You said you’re visiting?”

“My friend Robyn is part of the tango club. She needed a hand…”

“So she brought in a pair of hired stilettos.”

He made her laugh. “I guess so. She knows I’m hooked on the dance.”

“It shows. You can’t dance the way you do without feeling something for it.”

“You do it long enough, it becomes a part of you.” Thea drifted to a stop and leaned against the railing overlooking the water. “I guess that sounds silly.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

She turned away from the river, looking back at the milonga . A breeze stirred the lanterns in the trees. Their moving patterns of light and shadow silhouetted the figures dancing. A woman’s voice, throaty with longing, floated through the evening air; and behind it, the instruments formed a mournful chorus.

“She sounds heartbroken,” Brady murmured. He stepped away from the railing, slipping one hand along to cover Thea’s, swinging around to come slowly to a stop before her.