Page 178 of The Dixon Rule

Her other hand rests on my shoulder, and suddenly we’re surrounded by the most melodramatic music, courtesy of my melodramatic woman. I command the dance floor with a confidence I only half feel. I don’t have time to wonder if I look stupid. To care that I’m making an ass of myself in front of my hockey team. I’m going to nail this fucking routine if it kills me. Diana follows my lead, surrendering to me the same way she submits in the bedroom. She’s the better dancer, but I’m the lead.

Her steps are precise. Mine are less so but not embarrassingly bad. We communicate with our eyes, knowing exactly what needs to be done. We’ve practiced this routine so many times, I know it by heart, but tonight it’s more seductive than I intend.

My hand finds the small of her back. I caress it and her breath hitches.

Our chests meet, then retreat.

I hear cries of approval in the audience and loud cheering from my teammates, but I drown it out. Only concentrating on Diana, my footwork, and the motherfucking tango. Legs intertwined, I march us with growing confidence, following the seductive steps she choreographed for us. The sultry rhythm gets in my blood. It’s intoxicating. It makes me want to fuck.

My fingers graze her back again, stroking seductively. Christ, this sexual tension is something else. An electric charge that’s about to set fire to this ballroom. I don’t even care that Coach Jensen is probably having a panic attack.

Diana’s heels click on the floor, my feet working hard to match her step for step. Every dip and twist get us closer to the end, and I realize the audience is quiet now. Just watching us. Diana is drama personified, so our tango features a lot of dramatic pauses, and I hear a woman gasp over the music at one point.

Everyone is collectively holding their breath when I lift Diana. She slides down my body and I immediately hook her leg and we march again. Her body is like liquid in my arms, enthusiasm and sensuality radiating in her movements. She’s so hot.

Our bodies arch, legs intertwine as the song reaches its climax. If we were naked, I’d be coming inside her right about now.

We execute a final dip to the cheers of the audience. The bottom of Diana’s ponytail brushes the floor as I hold her in a low dip. She’s suspended there like a sexy angel. With our eyes locked, the final pose is intimate and sexy as fuck. We hold it as the music dies.

My heart is racing. I’m panting, feeling like I just played a full period of hockey without a rest.

There’s a brief silence before applause erupts in the ballroom.

Yeah. We killed it.

Diana beams at me. She’s breathless too.

“We did it!” She throws her arms around me.

I lift her off her feet, glancing over to see the judges scribbling wildly on their clipboards.

“Fuck,” I say as we hurry off the floor. “I wish this score wasn’t combined with the waltz. I think based on the tango alone, we could’ve placed.”

“Oh, look who’s getting invested now,” she teases.

I grin. “Dixon. We slayed that tango. You know that, right?”

Proof of that is in the sulking faces of Viktor and Martinique when we pass their seats. Aw, someone’s looking confi-sad.

“Nice job,” Martinique spits out, as if the words taste bad.

“Thank you,” Diana says magnanimously.

We bypass the seating section because Diana needs to make a quick wardrobe change. The backstage area is still bustling. A few monitors against the wall show live footage of the routines being performed in the ballroom, and I notice Lynsey standing near one with her partner Sergei. When her gaze finds mine and she gives me a smile and a thumbs-up, I can’t decipher her expression.

“You were incredible,” Diana tells me, awe rippling in her voice. “No joke, Lindley. That was phenomenal.”

I can’t deny my ego gets a nice boost hearing that.

Diana opens her garment bag and pulls out another skirt. She slips out of her red, filmy one, replacing it with a pleated number that falls to her ankles. It’s a shimmery white, and the black leotard combined with the white skirt seem to transform her.

I was wrong. Diana is glamour and elegance. She’s both.

“The waltz is more flowy,” she explains, noticing me watching her. “All those sweeping movements. The pleats will emphasize that.”

“Of course,” I play along. “And it’ll show off those indecent ankles. Get all the dicks hard.”

“Exactly.”

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