Page 14 of Guarded Hearts
I checked my phone, more from habit than anything else. There was nowhere else I needed to be until the show started tonight.
“You have plans?” he asked.
With a shake of my head, I tossed the phone into my open bag. Pretending I had something else to do was stupid. I didn’t mind playing games with a man. Sometimes they were fun.
But he was right; I was avoiding him. Apparently, he was over our sexcapade, ready to move past it. Instead of pretending I was there, too, I needed to find a measure of indifference. Practicing with him was a good start. Neutral. Work-related. Easy.
“No, I can help you now. Sorry—bad habit.” I gestured to the phone while I took my place beside him and showed the footwork again.
In the mirror, his gaze was trained on my feet. “You make it look easy.” His lips twisted in frustration as he tried to mimic the movement.
We did the sequence over and over. Each time, he got a little more but never quite the whole thing. I didn’t know how many times we’d done it, how long we’d been at it when he threw up his arms. “It’s not working.”
“It just takes time.”
“Another way. Is there another way to learn?” He kept his head lowered, focused on my feet, and didn’t meet my gaze in the mirror.
I had never taught dancing, had only ever been the student. What had my teachers done on the rare occasion I hadn’t gotten a step? I couldn’t remember. Dancing was like breathing.
A memory surfaced. I’d watched instructors tackle students who weren’t picking up the choreography or steps by having the student stand behind, another mirror, a shadow.
“I have an idea.” I bit my lip and debated using the technique I remembered. No matter what, I had to get him comfortable and moving. If I couldn’t get the choreography to work, it wouldn’t just be the dance that flopped—it might well be my career. “You’ll need to stand behind me, put your hands on my waist, face the mirror.”
He rubbed the back of his head and winced. “Behind you? My hands…”
“On my waist. Yeah. Is that a problem?” I raised my eyebrows in challenge, even as my heart pounded.
Winced. He’d winced.
“No, no, no. Not a problem.” He moved behind, his hands hovering over my hips before they came to rest, light as a feather. His fingertips grazed my bare skin.
Our gazes connected in the mirror, and a frisson of awareness snaked along my body down to my core. “A little higher,” I murmured. With our gazes locked, I slid my hands over his and drew them up to my waist. “Here.”
He cleared his throat. “Here?” His voice was still husky.
His rough hands sent pinpricks of excitement along my skin. I should have worn more clothes instead of leggings and a sports bra. An adequate dance outfit, but I wasn’t dancing.
Could I turn in his arms, capture his lips? Would he lay me down on the cold concrete, fuck me on the floor? Or perhaps he’d press me against the wall, my legs circling his waist, the concrete blocks cold against the small of my back? Fantasy after fantasy raged, completely inappropriate and impossible to control.
“Show me,” he said.
If I stuck out my ass while I moved, I’d brush against him, be able to feel whether he was as turned on as I was. So much I could show him. I needed to leave this room, go back to my bed, and let my hands do the things I wished his hands would do.
Professional.Detached.
“This is the man’s part.” I hated how breathy I sounded, as though I’d been twirling around the floor for minutes.
“Okay.” He broke eye contact to stare at my feet in the mirror again.
“Ready? Start with your left leg.”
He nodded.
“Rock,” I said, stepping back. “Feel the way my hips shift there?”
He swallowed and met my gaze in the mirror again. Another nod.
“You want to mimic that. Not so stiff.” I wiggled my hips to showcase the loose movement and then put my hands over his, slowing it down, doing it again.
