Fluffy(46)

No one else in the room exists. The light that bounces off the polished floors is ours. The murmurs and giggles in the background are ours. The way he breathes my air and I inhale him is ours, too. We’re touching, my thigh against his, and every warm part of Will Lotham’s front half that is decent to display in public is rubbing against me.

Except his lips.

“Now, take one step forward,” Philippe says. “Together.”

Will steps on my foot. Hard.

I make a very unfeminine sound and start to pitch backwards. Tightening his grip on my waist, his hand sliding, open and splayed across the small of my back, he saves me from a complete wipeout.

But that save has its costs.

In an instant, all traces of that teenage girl in me are gone, disintegrating, turned to stardust that sweeps off me like a fine spring breeze. I am all woman now, mature and wanting.

All I want is this. Now. The man before me, his arms warm and assured, grasp confident and bold.

And very much wanting me back.

His desire is evident, in physical form as my thighs meet his, our eyes locked, the fringe of his dark lashes around those intense eyes making me ache to spend hours cataloguing him. Each detail on his face becomes part of an extraordinary whole, emotion inserting itself into each pore, every curl of muscle, the sleek press of skin on bone as he watches me back.

Breathless.

I’m breathing, my body pulling oxygen in as the rest of me orbits us, gravity turning into lust, pulling us closer.

We can’t break free.

We don’t want to.

“Mallory,” he says, his voice low and serious, the kind of vibration a grown, sophisticated man uses when he’s talking to his equal. Desire pulls me closer, our faces inches apart, the edges of Will disappearing.

Clap clap!

We both jolt, Philippe grinning as he looks around the class. “Change partners! Time to learn from variety!”

As if scalded, I leap out of Will’s arms, his hands holding me for a few seconds longer than propriety would dictate, as if he doesn’t want to let me go.

But he does.

The strong hand that was on the small of my back slides through his thick, dark hair, fingers spread like he’s about to grasp a football. Dipping his chin, he looks up at me and smiles. With his free hand, he gestures, as if to say, by all means.

Meanwhile, my heart is screaming, by all means necessary.

“Oh ho ho! My lucky day!” says an old gentleman who looks like an exact replica of a garden gnome, minus the red hat and suspenders. I look down a good half foot into a radiant face framed with wrinkles, a white beard, and so much good cheer I have to smile back.

Unable to form words quite yet, I just let the man take me in his arms, his feet so graceful that I finally choke out, "You’re a wonderful dancer!” I feel like room-temperature butter in his hands, molded with a fine touch, not too much or I’ll melt, not too little or I’ll go cold and hard.

“Thank you. Dancy’s the name. And you?”

“Mallory.”

“You single, Mallory?” he asks as he passes Will, who makes a sound of amusement. He obviously heard.

“Yes, I am, Dancy,” I say loud enough for Will to hear.

“Too bad you’re not ten years younger,” Dancy says with mock sadness. “You’re a bit ripe for me.” Wink.

“Missed opportunity.” I chuckle as he moves me across the room like a short, bald Gene Kelly impersonating Santa Claus.

“What’s wrong with him?” Dancy thumbs toward Will. “He taken?”

“No.”

“Gay?”

My heart jumps in my throat. “Not that I know of.”

“Then he’s just stupid, eh? Not dating you, I mean.”

I know what he means, all right.

“Are you Canadian, Dancy?”

“Matter of fact I am. Did the ‘eh’ give it away?”

“No. Your common sense did.”

His turn to laugh. “Hmm, how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Ah. Much too old for me.”

Philippe calls out instructions from the other side of the dance floor but Dancy ignores him. “Wait a minute,” I ask as the world blurs along, like I’m a spinning top in the arms of a toymaster. “Dancy isn’t your real name, is it? Dance lessons, Dancy.”

“It actually is. My parents were cruel people who gave a newborn a name that would get my arse beaten many times in school.”

“British, is it?”

“How’d you guess? Do I look like the queen?”

Clap clap! Philippe moves toward us like he has wheels for toes. “Dancy? Again? If you’re going to pick up women, please go for the ones David the Asshole lied to.”

“That’s me,” I sigh, remembering.

Dancy drops his hand from my waist and makes a deep, solemn bow.

“And while you’re great for business, you never, ever do any of my dance moves,” Philippe chides.

“Because your choreography is a crime.”

Philippe sniffs and looks the old man up and down. This is clearly an old conversation on an infinite jest loop. “Your suit is a crime.”

“You know what’s really a crime?” Dancy says as Will wanders over, closely followed by two chattering old women. I hear the words granddaughter and crossfit and good cook.