The Dance Off. Ally Blake
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of the stereo.
Norah Jones oozed from the speakers, warm and sultry. As she made to change it Ryder’s hand came down over hers.
“Seems as good as any,” he said, his gaze as good as saying, Now you’ve got me where you want me, what are you going to do with me?
What she wasn’t going to do was tell the guy the song was too damn intimate for her liking, making her think of smoky jazz bars, and dark corners, and roving hands, and hot lips, and hot skin...
She lifted her chin, clamped her hand hard over his. “Start at your feet. Press them into the floor. Your leg muscles will switch on. Now soften your knees. Like you’re about to bend them, without bending them. Press your inner thighs together—”
At that his hips pressed into hers and Nadia prayed for mercy.
“Lift your torso away from your hips, like there’s a string coming out the top of your head and somebody’s stretching you to the rafters. Now chin up, shoulder blades back and down and—”
“Breathe?” he asked, his voice strained.
The laughter that shot from her was unexpected, and he rewarded her with a small smile.
“Can only help.”
Only when she felt in her bones, in that place inside her that knew dance better than it knew life itself, that they were positioned just so, she began to sway. Pressing his hand with hers, his thighs with hers, she tilted her hips to his until his movement matched hers. And even while every point of contact thrummed with awareness, dance-wise, compared to the week before, it was actually better.
“Feel that?” she asked several bars later.
“I feel something,” he murmured.
“Not so stiff tonight,” she said, and felt him turn to stone beneath her touch. “Oh, relax. I meant in the hips,” she added, giving his arm a shake to get him moving again. “Been practising, have we?”
A muscle clenched in his jaw as he grumbled something about the better he knew the steps, the fewer lessons he’d have to endure.
“Really?” she said, honestly surprised. “Good for you.”
He grunted. “I feel like I’m in one of those movies were you’re about to ask if I could be your partner in some dancing contest.”
She laughed again; this time it slid more readily through her. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, sunshine. You couldn’t keep up with me if you tried.”
“No?” Without warning, he took her by the hand and twirled her out to the ends of his fingers. Years of training kicked in and she went with it, using her weight to hit the end and swing back where he swept her into a dip that left her breathless.
It wasn’t the most graceful move she’d ever executed, and yet her breath thundered through her body as his dark shadow loomed over her, as his strong arm braced her back, as his striking eyes stared hard and deep into hers.
Her hands curled against his bare pecs, and for the first time she wondered about Mr Testosterone’s life beyond the hour they spent together Tuesday nights. Did he lift cars for a living? Chop down hardwoods? No, not a bump in that perfect nose, not a single scar on that dauntingly flawless face...
Then, far more gently than she expected, he eased her back upright until they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh, in a loose ballroom hold.
“How was that?” he asked, shifting so that she fitted closer still. Close enough to see flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. Close enough that every breath in was filled with his scent.
“Needs work.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
Well reminded, she pulled away and jabbed the remote until she found something less...Norah. A basic foxtrot, pure muzak, the least sexy sound on the planet.
“Your posture’s closer,” she said. “Now we’ll work on your feet. Because, my friend, they suck.”
* * *
Soon the hour was over. Sweat had added a sheen to Ryder’s skin, a muskiness to his scent.
“Okay,” she said, running her hands over her damp hair. “Work on your feet this week. Give me something else to pick on next time.”
As she went to walk to the chaise to gather her stuff his hand clasped her wrist, stopping her. She looked back, hoping he couldn’t feel the sudden flurry of her pulse.
“I thought it was something in the air, but it’s you, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That scent?” He leant into her, his nose brushing the edge of her hair as his eyes closed and he breathed her in. “I caught it last week too. Thought it was coming through the windows.”
She opened her mouth to say...who knew what. Her throat locked up as her entire body stood stock still, riveted by the sensation of his intense attention, and all that intoxicating male body heat intermingling with her own.
“What scent might that be?” she finally managed, her words thick, as if she were speaking through a mouthful of marshmallows.
“It’s spicy yet sweet. Like brandy.”
She breathed in and figured it out. “Ah, my hairspray. Industrial strength.”
His eyes moved to her hair, which was in its usual dishevelled array after a day’s worth of dancing.
“I don’t use it on my hair. Not unless I’m performing.”
His eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline. “Then where?”
“It keeps the leotard from rising.”
“Rising?”
“Up,” she said with a swish of her hand towards the offending area. And then she walked away, completely unable to help from looking back to find his eyes had zeroed in on her backside with enough intensity he might as well have been using X-ray vision to see beneath her skirt. And if she added a little extra va va voom to her walk? She was only human.
She grabbed her lucky black wrap cardigan, criss-crossing the cord around her ribs.
She turned everything off while her student made himself decent. Pity. It had been fun while it lasted. Heady, hazardous, but worth every agonising second. While it was imperative she keep her hands to herself outside the one hour a week, at least her fantasies now had something to live off for months to come.
As he had the week before, Ryder waited for her as she locked up, walking behind her as she headed down the rickety old staircase. It was kind of endearing, actually, or it would have been if the feel of him a step behind her didn’t make her knees give out on the already precarious staircase.
When they got outside, he motioned to his slumbering car, all vintage curves and glossy gleam, its swanky dash glinting through the heavily tinted windows. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
She looped her big soft bag over one shoulder and gripped the strap in front of her. “Thanks, but no. I live just around the corner. And I’ll be fine walking. I have a mean right hook.” She lifted her hands in a boxing move, then backed away from the temptation of the cool luxury of the car, and the man who owned it.
His eyes remained steadfastly on hers. “Then would you like to get a coffee?”
Damn. Nadia nibbled her bottom lip and struggled to dampen the distinct tightening in her belly. “Thanks, but no. Hate the stuff. Stunts your growth, don’t you know. See you next week.”
Without another word, she turned and headed home, knowing he was watching as she walked away. She could feel it as surely as if his big hands were sliding down her back, over her backside, down her calves, deep into the arches of her sore feet.
Her pulse beat hard in her neck, her