Page 106 of The Dixon Rule

“DON’T FORGET—THE TANGO ISN’T A DANCE,” DIANA EXPLAINS, RESTING both hands on her slim hips. It’s raining outside, so we’re rehearsing in the Meadow Hill gym. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem, but the same way I now attract an audience in this damn gym, so does Diana apparently.

We’ve got three dudes here pretending to work out, which means three pairs of eyes glued to Diana’s ass as she saunters off to grab a bottle of water. She and I have set up camp on the mats where I usually do my deadlifts. We’re in perfect view of Ralph, who’s using the treadmill at the end of the row, walking impossibly slow. Liam Garrison is playing the role of “man who bench presses.” And rounding out the trio is Dave from Weeping Willow, who’s spent less time rowing on his machine and more time watching Diana stretch.

I don’t blame them. Her ass looks incredible in those skintight shorts. And although her sports bra offers some padding, it doesn’t stop her breasts from jiggling whenever she moves. Everything about her is worthy of ogling. Her bare stomach. Tanned skin. Hair in a high ponytail.

She’s utterly edible. And I want to take a big bite.

“Lindley, pay attention.”

I snap out of it. “The tango isn’t a dance. Got it.” I pause. “Wait. So what is it, then?”

“It’s a promise.”

“A promise of what?”

“The best sex of your life.”

Damned if that doesn’t make my groin clench.

“You’re dancing, but really, you want to be in bed. But you can’t, so you have to let out all that sexual frustration on the dance floor.”

She’s preaching to the choir. Sexual frustration has become the story of my life. Because of Diana Dixon, of all people. We’ve been rehearsing the tango every night this week, and it’s getting more and more difficult to have her body so close to mine and not take her clothes off.

I picked up the tango steps a lot faster than I did with the cha cha, so rehearsals are kicking into next gear. It isn’t long before we’re in position, marching up and down the gym mats in a routine I’m quickly becoming proficient at.

“And one, two, three, four, five-six, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five-six, seven, eight. Perfect. Nice, we got this. Make sure you’re a bit quicker on the fifth count.”

Tango is a walking dance. In theory it sounds simple, but it’s more difficult than it looks. You need to bend your knees a lot. It’s very bendy.

“Oh my God, Shane, you’re doing amazing!”

“You’re such a cheerleader,” I grumble, but I’m not really complaining.

Confession: doing this with Diana is fun. She’s an endless well of gusto. A bundle of energy. She doesn’t stop, and I sort of love it when the cheerleader in her comes out. This woman just pumps you up. If I suffered from low self-esteem, I’d hire her to follow me around and boost me up all day, telling me how remarkable I am.

And another confession: I like to dance.

Sure, I still can’t get my hips to move exactly the way Diana wants them to, but I’ve always had rhythm, and I feel this dumb tango music in my blood as I lead Diana forward, then slide my hand over her upper back and dip her.

I wish we could do some cool lifts, but when I raise the idea again now, Dixon says it’s not really “a tango thing.”

“I think anything is a ‘tango’ thing if you make it so,” I retort. I twist around to the ever-present camera. “Back me up here, guys.”

“Do not back him up,” Diana says, angrily pointing at the tripod.

We’re not filming live, but it’s unsettling to think that this video will be seen by hundreds of thousands of people. Since our first viral video, Ride or Dance’s follower count soared from a measly 100K to over 450K. We’ve had three more posts with a million-plus views, and Diana’s been gushing about the ad revenue.

“We need to stick to the routine. It scored perfect tens from the judges on Dance Me to the Moon,” Diana says, naming the reality show she’s been stealing choreography from.

“Yeah, but we don’t want to copy it completely. Let’s think outside the box. One lift,” I beg. “Please?”

She caves. “Fine. Let’s try it. We’ll do those same two slow beats for a count of four, and on the quick five-six, you can lift me.”

“I like where your head is at.” I nod in approval.

Diana raises her arms to tighten the elastic of her ponytail, which draws my focus to her breasts in that neon-pink sports bra. She wears a lot of neon. It suits her. And those perky tits suit her too. She’s like a sexy little pocket rocket.

I don’t mind that she’s still pretending she’s not attracted to me. I need someone who will make me work for it a little. I’m a man who loves a chase. But I hate that the ball’s entirely in her court. I made it clear the other night that I was down for…anything. Literally anything. But Diana’s too stubborn for her own good. I have no idea what it will take to win her over. She just needs to, I don’t know, swallow her pride. And then swallow my dick.

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