Hot Moves. Kristin Hardy
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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.
“She is. ‘Mi Noche Triste.’ My sad night,” she translated. “It’s a very famous song in tango.”
“Do you know the story?” He leaned in to press his hands on the rails, trapping her between them, his gaze holding her transfixed.
“She weeps for a lover who has abandoned her. She sits in the dark. At night, she falls asleep with the door ajar because it lets her imagine that he is coming home. That’s tango, the dance of longing.”
“What do you long for?”
“What makes you think I long for anything?” He was close to her now, so close.
“Everybody wants something.” His lips were a fraction away from hers.
“And you? What do you want?”
“That’s easy.” He could tell she felt his breath as he said the words. “I want you.”
And then he leaned in and took.
3
IT WAS A BIG, WIDE WORLD, but somehow the entire thing reduced down to just one sensation—the press of Brady’s lips to hers. Thea stood absolutely still, not even breathing, every fiber of her attuned to it. Mesmerizing warmth, a surprising softness, a beguiling friction that tempted her lips to part.
Her breath shuddered out.
And then, oh, then, the taste of him, the slick dance of tongues that sent butterflies flitting about her stomach and a slow roll of tension forming within her.
She felt herself trembling. Everything in her clamored to dive into the kiss hard and deep, to crush him against her, but here he’d barely touched her and she was quivering. And it rocked her in some fundamental way. She wasn’t a virgin, but there was some part of her that wasn’t really touched, some part of her that would be his alone.
And so Thea kissed him.
She’d wondered as the years rolled by what it might be like. She’d wondered if she’d forgotten how, if she’d be able to relax and enjoy it any more. But with his mouth on hers, she let all that go and immersed herself in the kiss. Her hands framed his face, fingers threaded through his hair. Changing the angle of the kiss, she nipped at his lips, her tongue dancing against his. Her soft exhale was a barely audible moan.
And suddenly everything changed. She’d kissed men during her life, even once or twice in the years since New York, but it had never been like this, this overwhelming surge of sensation. She’d kissed men but it had never raked her with wanton need. She didn’t want easy exploration any more. She wanted it relentless and direct. In a flash, she turned the kiss hard, lacing it with demand.
Brady’s hands clenched the railings until his knuckles whitened.
Thea trailed kisses along his jaw, making an impatient noise down in her throat. She traced her fingers down his chest, nuzzled against him.
She could feel him getting hard.
“Don’t you want to touch me?” she breathed, her hands lingering around his belt, slipping under his untucked T-shirt to trace the lines of his abs.
He gave in and crushed her to him.
She hoped her low laugh told him she didn’t want gentle any more—she wanted it as hard and fast and urgent as he did.
He ran his fingers up the length of her thigh and into the high, high slit of her dress. And when she raised her leg up farther and wrapped it around his waist, it about snatched her breath away. So close, yet not close enough. All she wanted was to feel him naked against her.
“I think we need to get somewhere private,” Brady said raggedly.
“Now,” was all she said, urgency throbbed in her voice.
“My truck’s close. We can go to my place,” he added. “It’ll be quick.”
“I hope so,” she said.
The trip to the truck took too long, or maybe it only seemed that way because he kept stopping and pressing her body up against a lamppost or a building so that he could fuse his mouth to hers, kissing her like he was storing up oxygen enough for the next part of the journey.
She didn’t want to wait, Thea thought as Brady helped her into the Jeep. She needed him now. Needed more now. She shifted when he got in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss on him. “How far is your house?”
“A couple of miles.”
Far enough.
She ran her hand up the