Page 120 of The Wildest Ride

“Keep up the same step,” he whispered in her ear after pulling her close, before she stepped back away from him. She nodded and while she focused on holding the same step pattern, he made the dance come alive.

He spun her under his arm partially, then back, before lifting her arm and dipping under it himself, the bounce in his knees and movement adding a little hip-hop flare to the dance.

Before she knew it, she’d completely stopped focusing on steps, her body memorizing the movements and rhythm so her mind could be free to elaborate and add her own flair. His eyes burned the first time she put her own signature on a spin, twisting her hips away from his at the last minute, avoiding the palm that wanted to land on her hip, making him work that much harder for the contact.

Her heart raced in her chest and her whole body was flushed, but she couldn’t remember having more fun outside an arena in her whole life.

They danced like that for three more songs until he led her off the floor sweating and unsure if it was possible for one’s hips to gettooloose. Even still, her heart protested their leaving the dance floor.

He wove them through the crowd that had only thickened since their arrival, drawing her along with him to the food table.

Various beers lined the table and he grabbed two Modelos, dropping a five in the money jar on the table. He opened them and handed her one, nodding toward the jar.

“Part of how they make up the effort.”

He toasted her, smiling into her eyes, and she didn’t look away as she took a sip of the beer, letting the carbonated cold fool her into thinking she was rehydrating.

She knew her hair had to have gained a couple inches in volume, but didn’t worry too much about it. One of the pluses of wearing her hair natural was that more volume meant sexier rather than a frizzed edges mess. Straightening and perms meant always being worried about losing your style to moisture and, as a full-time rancher, she’d never had the time to worry about trying to keep her hair dry. Still, it’d taken her a while to make the big chop.

He scanned the table for a moment before zeroing in on the cakes. She stayed put while he cut a piece, put it on a plate, and brought it back to her.

“Have you ever had tres leches?” he asked.

She shook her head and he said, “Get ready to have your mind blown.”

She raised an eyebrow, eyes dancing, and opened her mouth. He obliged by forking a bite for her and feeding her, and once again he was responsible for her world changing.

The cake was the definition of delectable, with gorgeous whipped cream frosting and fresh strawberry filling. It was the best cake she’d ever had. “Mmmmmm. You’re right. Delicious. A little sweet for the beer maybe,” she said, raising her bottle, “but I’ll take it.” She opened her mouth for another bite and he gave it to her.

He replied, “You’re sweeter,” the heat in his eyes telling her he had a lot more than cake on his mind.

Blushing, she changed the subject. “You’re a great dancer.”

His grin turned cocky. “I am. You’re a natural.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He shook his head. “Not a single one.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a sip of her beer to distract from her loss of words. He was doing something to her. She didn’t know what it was, but she was afraid it might be permanent.

As if he sensed her unease, he said: “Want to check out the other dance floor?”

She nodded, grasping at something safe, and he offered her his arm once again. Taking it, she followed him out of the room leaving the Western and brass sounds of the cumbia, crossed the foyer, and followed him into the thunderous bass of the reggaeton room.

The music was loud and fast and stampeded her heartbeat into its rhythm. Tension she didn’t know she’d been holding eased out of her shoulders. Here was something she was familiar with.

She didn’t get out often, but it had been the tradition for her college rodeo team to go out dancing in Tulsa at the end of every quarter. She was no phenom, but she knew she could hold her own on this dance floor.

She was wearing a dress, and a bit of a sundress at that, so there would be nothing really risqué with him tonight, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun.

She moved her shoulders and head in time to the music almost automatically, unwilling to wait until he found them a space in the crowd. Her hips had joined in on the action by the time he’d picked a spot and twirled her around to draw her up against him, her rear pressing against his groin. His hand was firm on one hip, lending her balance and stamping possession at the same time. She leaned back into him and their bodies seemed to move together in perfect sync with the sound of their own accord.

She hadn’t danced close like this since Spain—in the States, drinking safety rules kept her from letting anyone so far into her bubble.

In Spain, the night hadn’t ever started until after 11:00 p.m. and never ended before six in the morning. At twenty-one, living in a foreign country, she’d been sure that, next to rodeo, there was no better way to tap into the part of herself that was forever wild and free than to dance into the morning. She was wrong, though. Dancing with AJ was more thrilling than both.

Having him in her bed even more than that.

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