Page 118 of Breakers (Academy of Stardom 3)

“With what?”

“Me to breathe.”

“Breathe?”

I swallow hard, itching to hold her and yet wanting to run. The building pressure inside of me grows. “I don’t know how else to explain... Can we just dance…?”

“That’s why I’m here, right?” she answers, waiting for me to make the first move.

Stepping close, I place my hand on the middle of her back and clutch her hand against my chest. Her eyes widen as I position my legs and press my thumb against her spine as the familiar beat kicks in on the track.

“This is bachata,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Why now? What’s changed?” she whispers as our bodies mould together and we move to the distinct beat of the music. It’s natural, the way we dance together. Instinctual. Like coming home. I knew it would be. Dancing with her at Tales, then briefly at Jewels gave me a taste of how it would be to dance bachata with her. I already know that I will never want to dance bachata with anyone else ever again.

“Does there have to be a reason?” I ask, dipping her backwards slowly, before lifting her back up again. My hand slides down her back, over her arse and under her thigh, hooking her leg over my hip. She grinds against me as I stare into her beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that seem to change shade with her mood. Right now, they’re a deep brown. Sensual. Alluring. For a moment, at least, the anger and fear are gone. I swallow hard.

“Do you want to know what I think?” she whispers, her forehead pressed against mine, our lips grazing as she clutches the back of my neck and runs her fingers over my cheek.

“What, Tiny?” I reply, easing her leg down, and capturing her thigh between my own as we rock rhythmically from side to side.

“This dance is a goodbye. You’re going to go to Mexico regardless of what I say. You don’t believe you’ll come back any more than we do, so it’s easy for you to break our hearts when you won’t see the repercussions of your actions.”

Her voice cracks, her body trembles, but she doesn’t stop moving; instead, she raises her hands to meet mine. We dance like this, our bodies parted, but our palms pressed together for the next few beats of the song. I see the emotion playing in her eyes. She’s always wanted to dance bachata with me, and now she is. Right now, it’s a dance of mixed emotions. Her fear, my pain. Her love, my determination. Her courage, my stubbornness.

“You’re wrong…” I reply, releasing one hand, encouraging her to turn in a circle as I move behind her, keeping my distance for the next portion of the song. My gaze tracks the seductive sway of her hips, as she steps in time to the rhythm of the music. I’m enraptured by the way she moves and how fucking perfect she is.

“I am?” she questions as I step closer, lining myself up behind her. My chest, hips and thighs all pressed against her now; she fits perfectly.

“Dancing with you is helping to ease this feeling in my chest,” I admit.

“What feeling?” she questions, turning her head to the side and looking up at me as I slide my hand upwards and rest it just below her breasts. I feel the delicious curve of the underside of her breast as she places her hand over mine, our fingers entwining. My cock jerks, and I will myself to keep dancing and not rip her clothes from her body and bury myself inside of her.

This isn’t about sex. This is about so much more. Bachata is both sensual and controlled. The control is in the steps that are timed to the beat, but the sensuality is found in the closeness of our bodies pressed together, the building heat of cheeks brushing cheeks, lips grazing lips, fingers gliding over skin. It’s a dance that speaks to my soul. I need passion and love, Icraveit, but in a way that can be contained. Bachata allows that.

We rock our hips in time to the beat of the music, her arse pressed against my thickening cock. She hums, the soft sound vibrating through her back into my chest. I can’t help myself; I lower my lips to hers, brushing over them softly. The pain beneath my rib cage expands. I nearly lost her. I still could. I will if David doesn’t die.

“What feeling?” she persists, kissing me back. The edge of her tongue runs over my lower lip, teasing, stirring up more feeling, more pain.

“The rage. The pain. The love. It’s too much,” I admit.

For a second her step falters, but rather than stop dancing she spins around to face me, pressing her palm over my heart. “Too much?”

I concentrate on the basic count of the dance, the rising tide of the music. I use the familiar percussive beat to focus my mind and steady the bulging, rasping pain in my chest so that I can answer her truthfully. “I have to dampen every emotion. Love. Hate. Rage. Fear. Lust. Joy. I’m not normal, Tiny.”

“Why did you never say anything?” she asks, as I grasp her upper arms and she rolls her shoulders, undulating against me. “I could’ve helped you.”

“I didn’t know how to love the right way. I still don’t.”

“Then let me teach you.”

“It’s not as simple as that…”

“It can be, if you let it. Will you let me help you?”

For a while I can’t answer, not in words anyway. Instead, I guide her around my bedroom, the hugeness of the song and the intimacy of the space only serving to heighten the emotion further, not dampen it down like I’d hoped. I’m barely holding on.

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