Sweet Sinful Nights(3)

The second his bit had ended, he’d jumped off the stage, made a beeline through the crowd, and introduced himself to her, and asked her out one minute later. “I’m going to say the one thing that I hope doesn’t make you laugh tonight. Go out with me, please,” he’d said, and she had laughed, but she’d nodded, too, and said yes immediately.

He called up that lifeline now, tried to recreate the success that had won him his first date with this fiery, fierce, intense woman. “Go with me, please." He had to convince her. Make her see that Los Angeles was where they belonged. Where they could start their life together after college. “There must be tons of choreographer gigs in L.A.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No. Choreographer jobs are a lot like jobs for comedians. They’re hard to come by. So maybe you should come with me.”

“To London?”

She nodded. “Yes. Would you like to? Because, see what I’m doing right now?” She gestured from him to her. “I’m discussing it in advance with the man I love.” Her voice softened then, as she seemed to strip away the anger for a moment. “We could try long distance.”

The look on her face was so sweet, so hopeful, and it nearly made him say yes.

But he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. He shook his head vehemently. She had to go with him to Los Angeles. “No. I can’t do long distance. It’ll be awful not seeing you. Besides, you’ve always been there for me. You always came to see my shows. This is the same idea. You’re my rock. You’re my woman. I’ve got to have you with me.”

“So you want me to turn down West Side Story?”

“Shan, can’t you put it aside?” he said, then the next words tumbled out before he could stop them. “You can’t even dance anymore.”

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, red clouds billowing out her ears. “You ass. You know that hurts. You think I wanted to tear my ACL and never be able to dance again? At least you can write jokes no matter what.”

“But it’s true. Doesn’t it make more sense for you to go with me? This is a big deal for me.”

“And West Side Story is a big deal to me. This is my chance to have a career after dance. To do the only thing I might possibly be able to do and still be in the dance world. And at least I didn’t accept it. I waited to talk to you.”

“I thought you’d go with me. C’mon, you’re my wife.”

“Not yet.”

“But you will be.”

“Not if you keep making decisions without asking me.”

Shit. This was bad. This was the jet spiraling from the sky. This was an engine spitting out fumes and spinning out of control. He had to lean on the one thing they’d always done well. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, his six-foot frame towering over her.

“C’mon,” he whispered, as he kissed her neck. “How about some f*cking and fighting? That’s what we do best.”

She banged her fists against his chest. Yup. That was how it started. That was how they played this game.

“Yeah. Like that, babe. Just like that,” he said, as she squirmed in his arms. It was the moment before. Before she let go. Before she gave in. Before she was consumed with the same desire he had—to f*ck it out. To f*ck out their anger. To turn all their frustration into a coming together.

He nuzzled her neck, kissing her furiously, looking for the reaction this always elicited—the almost instantaneous melting into his arms, the way she molded to him, responding to kisses that turned a moment from bad to good. She shuddered and gasped, and those twin signs drove him on, reminding him that he and Shannon were unbreakable, that no matter what they did or said, no matter how hot-headed she thought he was, no matter how secretive he accused her of being, at the end of it, they were a chemical reaction that couldn’t be denied.

She kissed him ferociously, threading her hands in his hair and pulling his top lip through her teeth. He groaned, loving her roughness. Loving how she gave as good as she got. She bit down hard, and the temperature inside him shot sky-high. He backed her up to the wall, ready to strip her clothes and have her.

Then, he felt her hands on his chest, and, harder than she ever had before, she pushed him off, so hard he stumbled and nearly lost his balance.

“What was that for?” he asked, shock echoing in his bones.

“There isn’t any f*cking and fighting today, Brent Nichols.”

“Why?”

“Because you think everything can be solved with your dick. You think it’s okay to just make choices for us. It’s not. All you had to do was ask me first and I’d have said yes. But you didn’t even think about talking to me. You think you can just tell me how it’s going to be.”

His chest burned with frustration. He could not lose her. Would not. Hell, he was ready to toss her on his shoulder and carry her across the country if he had to.

“I’m not telling you how it’s supposed to be. I’m telling you that I need you with me. I have to have you by my side.”

“Which means you’re not really giving me a choice, are you?”

“What choice do you want me to give you? I took the job, and I need you with me.”

“You already made it clear that your career is more important than mine. And you know what? I’d have gone with you. I’d have called up Lars and turned down the chance to work on West Side Story. But you taking this job on the other side of the country, when we’d made plans to look for work in New York, shows me that I will never be number one to you.”