Page 60 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
I swallow and hold the door open, not sure if I should stay or leave.
“You’ve always been a good dancer—I don’t always tell you. But, I’ve never seen you dance like that before.”
I let the door close and hug my arms around myself. I’m kind of stunned. Antonio never gives me compliments; he only ever makes me feel as though I’m not good enough.
He looks around as if trying to find the words. “It’s like you’re dancing from here.” He presses his palms to his chest. “From your soul. Instinctive. Innate. Like… you’re not even trying.”
He stares at me, waiting for a response, but I’m at a loss because I can’t explain it myself. But I’ve noticed achange in my dancing too—in my ability to feel the music, to become one with it, to lose myself in a certain darkness. It began the day I heard gunshots across the street.
He sighs. “Well, whatever is making you dance this way, don’t lose it. Keep dancing like that and you will go wherever your heart desires.”
I nod once and open the door, only breathing again when I’m on the other side of it. I stare at the opposite wall and try to believe what just happened. Then I hear a faint noise coming from the top of the stairs.
Before I know it, I’m standing at Bernadi’s door, tapping my knuckles against it. When it opens, my stomach almost bottoms out. Is it possible for someone to get even more beautiful not twenty-four hours since I last saw them?
He’s wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt that accentuates the bronze flecks in his eyes. The cotton wraps around his torso like a glove, rippling over his abs and revealing the barbed wire ink curling round his bicep.
He wordlessly takes a step backward and I walk into his apartment. Once I’m inside he closes the door.
He looks down at me through heavy lashes. Both of us are waiting for the other to speak, but neither of us does.
My pulse is thundering through my ears as adrenaline skitters across my nerve endings. Looking up into his thoughtful gaze, I know exactly what is making me dance better than I’ve ever danced before.
It’shim.
It’s Bernadi. He’s unlocked something in me that makes it a little easier to live with myself. His darkness somehow makes mine okay.
I step forward until my chest is brushing against his. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything. My pounding heart makes me feel lightheaded and I’m conscious of the hate I’ve professed to feeling for him for so long slipping away, out of my grasp. It makes me feel untethered and at sea.
Instead of feeling angry at him, I feel a strange pull that I can’t explain. My stomach warms like liquid and my skin prickles with anticipation, remembering how good he made me feel. How can someone I hate make me feel sotreasured?
I tilt my chin and without thinking pull my bottom lip between my teeth. His jaw grinds but his expression doesn’t move. His body seems to have solidified, watching me with narrowed, beautiful eyes.
I reach up onto my tiptoes and let my lips part. My lids fall and something presses against my mouth. It isn’t his.
My eyelids pop open only to see his finger pressed against my lips. His voice is gravelly. “What did I say about putting your mouth on me, Contessa?”
I lower my heels to the floor, feeling some of the wind knocked out of me.
His voice lowers to a deep, haunting whisper. “I won’t be able to stop.” He lets those words sink in, then finishes with, “And that’s a promise.”
I freeze, my inexperience hurtling toward me at a million miles per hour. I got lucky on the hood of my car. He could’ve walked away and completely shattered my self-esteem. In reality, I have no idea how to play this game.
I feel a guttural need to thank him in some way for releasing some of my inhibitions. It’s too big of a coincidence that my dancing took on an even greater life of its own almost to the minute he showed up on the sidewalk.
His body heat is burning me up and he’s just said, in a roundabout way, he wants me. I mean, I’m reading between the lines here, but I think that’s what he meant.
Relief and something akin to want makes me curl my trembling fingers over the waistband of his jeans. I almostdieat the sound of his sharp intake of breath.
The buttons pop out effortlessly and when I look down I see why. His cock is straining against the fabric. Even through the cotton of his designer boxers, I can see it’s as big as my forearm.
“Take it out.” The bite in his tone makes me startle and my heart shoots up to the base of my throat.
My whole hands are shaking but I force them to work apart the opening in his boxers. I hold my breath and feed my hand through, then I feel the taut, soft,hotskin of his cock and my brain melts. It takes no effort to pull him out, but I’m stunned when confronted with exactly how well-endowed he is, and what he’s waiting for.
“Look at me.”
I’m grateful for the command. I feel slightly drunk trying to lift lids that have grown heavy with lust. He takes my chin between a finger and thumb and gently lifts it until my gaze meets his. His voice is a whisper. “Lookat me.”
