Page 90 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Idespisedancing.
The Pawseidon dance studio leaves me nowhere to hide. Its mirrored walls, polished bamboo floors, and judgmental lighting make it the perfect stage for my impending humiliation. One wrong step, and I’ll shatter my tailboneandmy dignity—not necessarily in that order.
For the next hour, this room is my personal torture chamber.
I put myself in the corner like I’m being punished. I’m a sulking statue—pressed khakis, every shirt button clamped shut, a collar so tight you’d think it had a choking kink.But I need the discipline. I don’t trust myself around a certain brunette in red.
Thirty minutes ago, I was in my cabin having what I’d describe as the fastest, most pathetic orgasm of my life. Three pumps and I was done, courtesy of replaying Petra’s moan when I grazed her nipple.
Now she’s ten feet away, wrapped in a crimson dress that clings like guilt. Strategic cutouts reveal flashes of inked skin, deliberate and taunting. She’s scrubbed away every trace of our encounter—hair flawless and wearing a fresh coat of red lipstick.
Fiona spins by in a blinding pink disco ball gown. Hana twirls in a fringe tornado.
But Petra… She hijacks every molecule of my attention.
Christ.I kissed her again. I have zero self-control when it comes to her.
I’m the biggest piece of shit alive.Gavin trusts me, calls me family. And here I am, one heartbeat away from ripping off that sin-red fabric and finishing what we started in the goddamn closet.
Our eyes lock, and she shoots me a wicked grin, as if she’s heard my thoughts and is daring me to act on them. My dick twitches at the invitation.
Out of the question.I’m leaving this class right now. One more seductive glance and I’m a dead man.
“¡Buenas tardes, mis amores!”
A petite Mexican woman with silver hair and a flower in her bun bounces into the room, her jewelry chiming with each step.
“I am Rosita Salinas, and today we discover the language of passion through movement!” She shimmies dramatically. “Salsa maintains the fire between two hearts long after the vows are spoken. My Enrique and I have been dancing for thirty years, and—¡madre mía!—we still burn for each other.”
Hana releases an appreciative sigh.
“Sadly,mi corazóncannot join our lesson today. He’s teaching at the weeklong summer festival in Puerto Vallarta with drinking, dancing, and”—she winks—“passionate encounters beneath the stars.”
My mind conjures images of Petra moving against me under cover of darkness, and Ishift uncomfortably.
“But first,” Rosita announces, “you must witness true dedication! Allow me to present my most accomplished students!”
The studio door swings open, and I’m fully unprepared for what emerges.
Miss Muffy Von Cashmere II struts in wearing a rainbow-sequined dress possibly stolen from a Vegas showgirl.
And then comes Nigel.
Gone is the butler suit. In its place: a matching colorful shirt unbuttoned to reveal glittery chest hair and pants so tight they look sprayed on.
“What fresh hell is this?” I whisper.
Latin music floods the room.
What happens next will haunt me forever.
Miss Muffy rises on her hind legs, places her paw in Nigel’s hand… and they dance.
Like,actual salsa.
Miss Muffy’s tiny legs work in perfect time with the beat as Nigel guides her through choreographed turns and spins.
“This cannot be real,” Gavin mutters.
