Page 13 of Dreamboat

“That means it’s time to dance,” he says, surprising me. “Unless you need to rest your toe.”

The last time I danced with a man was at Roman’s wedding. When he married his wife, Bianca, I hit the dance floor with him as we reminisced about how our lives had changed since we were kids.

“I’d love to dance with you,” I tell him as I gaze into his eyes.

Keeping my hand in his, he moves to stand. “Come with me. I promise you a dance you’ll never forget.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Donovan

Delia Hawthorne is a much better dancer than I am and that’s saying a lot since I consider myself an above average partner on the dance floor.

I attribute those skills to my maternal grandmother who decided that all of her grandchildren had to know how to cook, sew, and dance by the time they graduated high school.

The cooking came in handy because take-out is not sustainable when you’re a kid in college trying to make ends meet on a meager part-time salary. Having rudimentary sewing skills gave me a leg up when it came time to perfect the art of suturing.

As for the dancing, I didn’t see the value in it other than it put a smile on my grandmother’s face whenever I asked her for a dance when I visited her. I suspect that was her true motivation for insisting I learn every ballroom dance ever known to man.

“You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be.” Delia glances up at my face as I twirl her around the crowded dance floor.

This ship has three separate venues that offer passengers the chance to cut a rug, so we made a point to visit each one so we could rank them at the end of the night.

The one we’re currently enjoying tops my list since we’re beneath the stars with the added benefit of a cool ocean breeze nipping at us.

Goose bumps trail up Delia’s arms but I can’t tell if that’s courtesy of the light wind or my hand on her waist.

“Is that so?” I question back as I squeeze her hand in mine. “You thought I’d be a shitty dancer?”

“Average,” she clarifies. “Most men aren’t that great at dancing.”

I give her a tight, unexpected spin that draws a small moan from her lips. I realized the move resulted in that reaction when I took her into my arms as we waltzed to an old-time classic in the first club we visited.

The music that’s pumping out of the speakers now is fast paced, but we’re not keeping time with it. Instead, we’re still moving in tune with each other while everyone in our vicinity dances circles around us.

“Is that common knowledge or are you speaking from experience?”

That earns me a small laugh. “I’ve danced with my fair share of men.”

I’ve danced with my fair share of women, too, but none of that matters at the moment.

I study her face carefully. “In other words, many if not most of the men you’ve danced with haven’t impressed you?”

She tilts her head slightly. “They haven’t.”

“I’m impressing you,” I say with confidence.

She doesn’t argue the point. Instead, she offers me a slight nod of her chin.

“You’re impressing me too, Delia,” I tell her something I sense she already knows since I’ve hummed in appreciation repeatedly as she’s kept in step with my every move.

She let me lead each dance without question. I have no complaints, but she strikes me as the type of woman who has no issue with making her preferences known to her partner. Whether that’s on the dance floor or in bed.

“I know.” She smiles. “I can tell.”

If she’s talking about my semi-erection, I’m fine with that. She’s a beautiful woman and she’s been pressed up against me for the better part of the past two hours. I’m actually shocked that the raging hard-on I was fighting when I first took her to the dance floor has lessened at all.

Her gaze leaves my face to float past my shoulder. Tension tightens her body almost instantly.

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