Page 27 of Dangerous Devotion

“Really? What’s supposed to happen to girls like you?”

“Nothing good,” she says. “Not some crazy adventure like something I watched on Young & Restless as a kid.”

“Who was letting you watch that?” I blurt.

“My mom. She liked to watch it while she folded laundry, which I think means she saved all the folding till it was time for her show and then used it as an excuse to sit down,” she smiles fondly at the memory. “So where are we going?’

“Right here,” I say as I park the car.

We’re in front of a converted brownstone with a tasteful bronze plaque reading “Mrs. Tatum’s School of Classical Dance.” Serena looks at me, questions in her eyes.

“We have that charity thing in a few days. You told me you didn’t think you wanted to go,” I explain.

“Because I don’t know how to dance,” she says when it dawns on her. “So, you brought me for lessons?”

“I want you to feel good about yourself and enjoy the dancing.”

“I’m going to learn, like the waltz and stuff?” she says.

“No,” I say, “we are.”

“You’re kidding. The big, tough Mob boss—” she begins and I clear my throat. “Okay, businessman,” she corrects, “is going to keep his heels down and frame locked while some lady tells us to stop counting out loud?’

“Did you think I was going to make you do this alone? Or that I want you dancing with some other guy?” I say archly. She shakes her head, a pleased smile curving her lips.

“I never thought I was lucky. Then you came into my life and now—now you leave work early to help me learn how to dance.” She shakes her head like she stumbled on a pirate’s treasure.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“I need different shoes,” she says, looking down at her flip flops.

“Already taken care of.” I say proudly.

Inside the studio, which is booked for a private session, Mrs. Tatum, the proprietress and instructor, gives Serena a garment bag and directs her to a place where she can change. A few minutes later, her silver spike heels click across the gleaming wood floors and I see the swish of her purple skirt both moving toward me and in the reflection of the wall sized mirror.

The professional dancer, an older woman with her hair in a sleek bun who wants to be addressed as ‘madame’, leads us through some stretches and pokes me between the shoulders so I stand up straighter. She places Serena’s long, elegant fingers on my shoulder and directs me to hold her at the waist. Then she adjusts my hand which is too low for a proper ballroom. Serena’s eyes sparkle with laughter she holds back. “You got in trouble,” she whispers gleefully.

The music begins, and we follow directions. I try to concentrate on the eight-count, on which foot is my left since I seem to forget that when I’m holding Serena. We start over about sixteen times and end up separated so she can work with us one at a time. My mouth goes dry watching Serena in her leotard and filmy skirt work on her posture and the extension of her arms. When Madame holds Serena’s hips to instruct her on not sticking out her butt, my hands bunch into fists.

I don’t like anyone—not even an old woman—touching Serena. I have to laugh at myself there, silently, and make myself pay attention when my turn comes. I have to dance the instructor around the studio a few times, and she says I’m a natural and am a very strong lead. I’m pretty sure the woman is flirting with me.

At last, she puts Serena’s hand in mine and makes a twirling motion with her finger. Off we go, and it feels natural, like we’re floating, like our feet don’t touch the floor. We move together, with so much space between us because the dance calls for it. We are not, as Madame corrected sharply, ‘grinding in a club’. We are dancing as kings and queens once danced, decorous and elegant and letting the infuriating inches between our bodies fill with the tension and heat of our attraction.

It's beautiful, and I know with certainty that it’s the most romantic thing either of us has ever done. I’m absurdly pleased to have brought her here, to do this with her. If she didn’t already know how I feel about her, this would have told the tale. There’s no way I could hold her this way and keep it a secret.

She smiles at me, and I feel like a conquering hero.

“This is amazing,” she breathes. “I feel so light, and it’s like being in a movie. And you—I didn’t think you could be sexier. But here you are. Like you’re the duke in Bridgerton or something and I want to—”

“Be ravished in the garden? Want me to ruin you?” I whisper, than lean in and brush my mouth against her cheekbone.

Madame claps her hands and we spring apart like guilty teenagers. Then Serena starts to laugh. A quelling look from our teacher silences her, and we’re forced to dance separately again for a while. By the time we’re through, we can waltz and fox trot. She says the rumba was ‘too sexy’ for us since we had been reprimanded for stealing kisses more than once.

“Animals,” she derides us, “do not be in a rush like this. Take your time, let the distance and slowness of the dance seduce, give it space.”

We leave the studio holding hands, back in street clothes and exhausted. I pull her close to me and whisper, “Dance with me?” She looks at me in disbelief and then nods, delight playing on her smiling face. I hold out my hand for hers.

We dance on the sidewalk when it begins to rain, a slow, warm rain that tracks down my collar and slides along her throat as I spin her in my arms. I’ll bury myself deep inside her tonight, and we’ll fall asleep still joined. Our eyes will lock as I bottom out in the wet sheath of her. She’ll moan my name and say please while I hold her right on the edge until I force the climax from her and she convulses, sobbing and bucking while I empty into her.

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