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He stands abruptly and glances over my shoulder. “I don’t sulk,” he repeats, nodding. “But I do dance.”
He lifts his hand and snaps his fingers. A moment later, music starts playing.
I follow his gaze to the live band set up just behind the dining tables. Then I feel his fingers gently pinch my chin. With a subtle strength, he turns my face back to him.
His blue-green eyes are smoldering now, and his fingers drop from my chin as he offers me his hand.
“Come. Dance with me.”
5
DIMITRI
She glances around the deck, then back at me. “Nobody else is dancing.”
She’s right—everyone is relaxed in their seats, drinks in hand, chatting while the live band plays. But I don’t care. I want to touch her. I need to feel her close to me. Dancing is only an excuse.
“We’re dancing,” I tell her, taking her wrist gently. Thankfully, she gets to her feet without protest.
“But the music, it’s so… slow,” she observes mildly as I lead her toward the small open space near the stage. We didn’t make arrangements for a dance floor—this wasn’t that kind of event—but it’ll do.
“And?”
“That means we’d have to slow dance. I don’t know how.”
“That’s easy. Follow me.”
We come to a stop at our makeshift dance floor. I lace our fingers together and draw her into me, and my fucking cock goes stiff.
She glances up at me, eyes wide, lips parted, and I desperately want to swoop down and kiss the hell out of her. I don’t, though—I don’t want to scare her. So I settle for a smile, my free hand sliding to the base of her spine.
She’s tense at first, then slowly starts to melt into me. Her hand lifts, hesitant, before it rests on my shoulder, and when she looks at me again, there’s this shy little uncertainty to her.
“Now what?”
One minute she’s a vixen, the next she’s shy. The contrast with her is maddening. I love it.
“Now, we move.” I guide her through the first step. She stumbles, trying to adjust too quickly, so I tighten my hold on her waist and fingers. “Slowly. Feet together, not apart. Watch my steps.” She drops her head obediently, her hair falling forward in a deep red curtain around her face. “One, two.” I sway us gently side to side, then ease us into a small circle before bringing us back to a sway.
“Huh… this isn’t so bad.” She glances up at me with a grin so wide it knocks the air clean out of my lungs.
“Yeah, not bad at all,” I manage. We move like that for a few minutes—slow, easy, circling, swaying. Once she gets the rhythm, I ask, “Ready to take it up a notch?”
“A notch?” She frowns.
Instead of explaining, I raise our joined hands and spin her out. Her body moves with it fluidly, naturally, like we’ve practiced this before, her navy-blue dress flaring in a wide, glittering arc around her.
I spin her once, twice. On the third, I pull her back into me, and she lands against my chest, one hand gripping my shoulder.
“Wow—” She laughs, breathless. “The whole deck is spinning.”
I keep my hold firm and bring us back to a slow sway. After a moment, she tilts her face up at me. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”
“My mother made sure all her children took dance lessons. She always told us she was raising children, not heathens.” The way she used to say it still rings clear in my memory, and I smile. Even after everything she went through with her abusive husband, Viktor, she always put us first.
“She sounds like a wonderful mother.”
“The best.” The word comes out simply because it’s simply true.
