Page 47 of Strictly the Worst

She was right, though. She isn’t exactly the best dancer. I’d go as far as to say she’s one of the worst I’ve seen. She has absolutely no rhythm. It’s like her ears and her body are completely disconnected. She misses the beat every time.

“Can I sit down yet?” she asks, as the DJ spins another disc. This one has a slower beat than the last. Smooth, sensual.

Her body does not respond to the change in rhythm. Not at all. I bite down a smile as she dances way too fast for the new song. And I realize something. I like her more when she’s not perfect at everything.

Because nobody is perfect at everything.

A beautiful woman in a short, white dress with dark flowing hair walks behind Carmichael. Her eyes catch mine, before she looks at Tessa and rolls her eyes.

It pisses me off.

It pisses me off even more when Tessa steps back, not knowing she’s there, and steps on the woman’s bare toes.

“Watch where you’re going, bitch,” the woman growls.

Tessa blinks, stunned.

“Don’t stand so close then,” I say, taking Tessa’s hand and pulling her into me.

“Your girlfriend sucks at dancing. If you want to find somebody who knows how to use her body, I’ll be over there,” tall, dark, and mean says, nodding over at the bar.

I put my arms around Tessa and I can feel how stiff she is. And I’m even more pissed than ever. We were having fun. Nobody needed to say anything.

“Just fuck off,” Tessa says, turning around to look at the woman behind her. “This one’s mine.”

I don’t know how I hide my laugh, but somehow I manage with a cough and a quick cover of my palm across my mouth.

Okay, so Tessa isn’t a shrinking violet. She’s pissed.

I’m not sure I could like her any more than I do right now.

As soon as the woman disappears and we’re alone again, Tessa rolls onto her tiptoes to whisper in my ear.

“I’m going to need some more of that punch.”

“One more dance,” I urge her. “And then we’ll take a break.”

The song is slow and sensual. I squeeze her hand that’s in mine and she takes the hint, stepping into me until our bodies are pressing against each other.

I dip my head to smell the sweet floral notes of her shampoo as she rests her face against my chest. Then I slide my free hand down to the dip of her spine, moving us together, this time to the rhythm of the song.

Last night, we slept together. In the literal sense of the word. But this feels even more personal. Like another layer of skin has been removed from us both.

“Salinger,” she murmurs. I hardly hear her voice over the music.

“Yeah?”

“Do you have a hard on?”

“Not yet.”

“I think I do.”

Jesus, what did they put in that punch? I’m starting to think I should have asked them.

“Women don’t get hard ons,” I say, trying not to smile.

“What do they get then?” She looks up at me. There’s a dazed look on her face.

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