Page 34 of Not Catching Love

Me too, Carla. Get in line.

She suddenly lets out a warbly “Ohhh.”

“Shit, are you okay?”

“Fine, fine, dear. Just quite tired all at once. Quick, Paul, help me to a chair. Xander, dear, take over for me.”

I stiffen slightly as Paul leaves Xander, and Xander smoothly slides in front of me. He holds up his hand, and after a second of debating with myself and failing, I take it.

My free hand settles high on his waist, which I assume will take some of the temptation away, but I’ve underestimated Xander. Touching him like this, where it’s casual, not clinical, is more than I’m prepared for.

Those unnerving purple eyes meet mine as his hand rests on the side of my shoulder. “Hi.”

“What a coincidence that you were closest when Carla suddenly needed to sit down.”

He’s not even trying to hold back his smile. “I hope you’re not accusing my new best friend of anything.”

“Like what?” I play dumb.

“Like helping me orchestrate getting to be your partner for a dance.”

“I’d never suspect anything like that from you.”

His smile takes on a wicked edge. “You should.”

“You’re too sweet to be sneaky.”

“And you clearly know nothing about me. You should fix that.”

A few weeks ago, I might have agreed. I’ve gotten snapshots into his life, seen him at his most vulnerable, been witness to him accidentally letting things slip in weak moments, but real conversation has been slim.

I didn’t know how badly I was craving it until we started, and somehow, I need to let it go. Everything is friendly enough for right now, but I know how I’m feeling. I know how that little ball of care and concern is slowly changing, and I know that I’m not doing a damn thing to stop it from happening.

This fucked-up ride isn’t going to end well.

But then I look into his face, feel his warmth through his shirt, his slim side under my hand, and my craving for him deepens.

“You’re a much better dancer than painter,” he says.

We’re not doing anything more than rocking side to side because, as Carla pointed out, Xander has no idea what he’s doing. “And you’re a much better painter than dancer.”

His eyes light up, and then he slowly steps forward, one foot resting on top of mine, and then the other does the same. “Teach me.”

He’s flush against me, angles slotted with my grooves, and all my energy goes into controlling my cock rather than telling him to move the hell back. There’s something beautifully at war on his face that’s impossible to look away from. So I go with it.

I bounce my left leg. “This one first.”

“I’m ready.”

He might not be able to dance, but he has no issues staying in time with my steps. My pulse is racing in my ears, and he’sall around me. His scent, the cute freckles, the way he’s gripping me tight. Every step has my groin skimming against him, and I’m dangerously close to getting hard. Just his proximity is doing it. Somehow, he’s even more stunning up close. Up close where I can make out the guardedness in his eyes, the way one side of his face holds tension, like he’s biting the inside of his cheek maybe, how the bow in his top lip is more pronounced on the left, and above it, in the middle of his cheek, an eyelash has fallen out to rest beside his freckles.

I’m drinking in every fucking detail.

Swallowing back the want it’s bringing out in me.

This is a platonic dance.

Because it has to be.

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