Page 1 of To Tango, with Desire

ONE

AMIRA

Six months.

That was how long it’d been since I’d last set eyes upon Zane Nasser, the tall, dark, and handsome businessman who had taken my virginity in a night of sinful passion. Don’t get me wrong, I’d been eager to get my cherry popped. I’d grown up in a household where modesty was a virtue and sex before marriage was a major sin. So when, after a year of pent-up desire and a whole lot of smoldering eye-sex, Zane had invited me back to his place, I hadn’t hesitated.

My first time had proven to be decadent as well as sexually satisfying. Not something I had expected, but with a man as seasoned as Zane, had I been really that surprised?

I was achingly aware of the rippling current that permeated through the crowded milonga. It wasn’t due to the dancers or the low, intimate lighting. It was Zane. He exuded power and control that captivated the attention of men and women alike.

And yet beneath that expensive suit pulsed a sexual energy, an elemental allure that made my body feel on fire. It was what had attracted me to him in the first place. What had made me slip my hand inside my panties night after night, seeking pleasure. What had kickstarted my sexual awakening.

I clung to the edge of my chair, shifting my attention to the glamorous Argentinian couple on the opposite side of the room. They were visiting teachers from Buenos Aires, here to showcase their tango prowess and teach eager-eyed dancers a thing or two. But my traitorous brain kept rewinding time and all I could see was Zane’s fingers stroking me, urging me to lose control.

I crossed my legs but ached all the same.

Restless, I checked my phone for the thousandth time. Nothing. With a sigh, I hooked my bag on the back of the chair and willed Glen, the real estate agent, to call me. It was torture not knowing whether I would be offered the lease. Whether I would make my business dreams come true.

Scrap that. Watching the slender blonde curl herself around Zane like some boa constrictor was even more painful.

Why did I care? Zane wasn’t my man. He didn’t belong to me anymore than I did him. We’d shared a night of passion six months ago. The end.

I hadn’t been stupid enough to think we’d begun a relationship after only one hot night of sex. I wasn’t that naive.

I’d wanted a lover. He’d been my first.

Mission accomplished.

But the next morning, after we’d gone at it again, he’d asked for my number. And I’d given it to him, secretly thrilled at the prospect of seeing him again. And then nothing. Not one text. Not one missed call. Heck, not even a bum-dial.

So I’d tried to forget him. And then when that hadn’t worked, I’d done the age-old ritual of bar hopping, trying to meet as many different, hotter, younger guys to rid me of his image. Finding the caliber of man sorely lacking, I’d then returned to the tango scene. I’d danced with men at so many different milongas for months, straining to find the same magnetic connection, the ultimate embrace shared between a lead and follower . . . only to pull up short.

It was stupid. Ridiculous even.

And yet . . .

“Amira!”

I jolted as Alejandro and Mathilda approached. I took in their grinning faces and bubbly energy, and try as I might to hold onto my foul mood, the simmering anger in my chest faded away. They positively glowed with happiness.

This. This was the type of relationship I craved. To be loved so deeply, so completely, that I shone from within. Was that so much to ask?

“Welcome home, champs.” I slid off the chair, embracing them both. They'd been on tour ever since becoming world champs and I didn't realize how much I'd missed them. “I feel like I should bow or something.”

Tilda laughed, her blue eyes turning mischievous. “Alejandro doesn’t need an ego boost.”

“And my fiancée deserves all the praise for making me look good.”

The heated glance between them made me want to sigh. They were like some Disney couple. He was grumpy. She was sunshine. And together they’d just conquered the world. Well, at least the tango one.

“So where is it? Where’s the big fat trophy?” I looked around them.

“We can’t carry it around to every milonga.” Tilda giggled.

“Why not?” I glanced between them. “I would. I’d be parading that bad boy down the street like some kind of sports hero.” I jumped up and down like Rocky Balboa.

Alé laughed. “Come to the studio. We have it there for all our students to admire.”