Tamed(11)

The music changes as I stand. “Wake Me Up” by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.

The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee’s body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket—pulling her gently back against me.

She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it’s me. And she smiles.

She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, which hardened the moment she started dancing.

I think she feels it—she must.

She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.

If feels fan-f*cking-tastic.

I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.

I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a good dancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.

I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind—thank Christ—but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.

Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a f*cking pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.

For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.

The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.

I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.

When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.

The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies move against each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee’s ass, pushing her harder against me.

To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee’s palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.

Meaningful.

I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she’s right there with me, opening for me—warm and wet—taking everything I have to give and kissing me back with equal ardor. Both my arms wrap around her, the dancing forgotten. One hand stays on her lower back, while the other buries in the softness of her hair as our mouths move together. Her hands cling to my shoulders, kneading the muscles, pulling me to her.

Have you ever had a moment when you think to yourself, this is going to change everything? From this point on, there will be a before, an after, and this event will forever divide the two?

Most people don’t. They’re too caught up at the time to recognize the significance of what’s happening.

That’s how I was.

But looking back now—this was it. That first, scorching, perfect kiss. This was the moment that would determine the rest of my life. And nothing after it would ever be the same.





Chapter 4


We walk back to Dee’s apartment. Stumble might be a more appropriate word.

Dry-hump would fit too.

I have the overwhelming need to kiss her every few steps—to pull her to me, or press her against the wall of a building to gain the necessary friction. And she’s in no way passive—dragging her fingernails along the bare skin of my abs, dipping her hands into my pants to squeeze my ass. We’re like two hormone-driven teenagers, making out in the school hallway, who don’t give a shit if they get caught.

We eventually arrive outside her apartment door. I stand behind her as she fiddles with the double locks—grinding my pelvis against her ass, cupping both tits in my hands, massaging and teasing those beautiful attributes. Once we’re inside, Dee crashes against me, standing on her toes to give me an intense, wet, tongue-tangling kiss. Her hands are all over my hair, pausing in their exploration just long enough for me to rip the jacket off her body. Then I bend low and make quick work of those minuscule shorts, leaving Dee wearing the white tube top and a string thong, with a scarce lace triangle.

I thought Delores was beautiful clothed, but naked—she’s breathtaking. Long, lean legs, narrow hips, a tight stomach with skin so soft it feels like a caress. She’s not overly sculpted; she has a yoga body—slim with the suggestion of firm muscles just below the surface. On my knees, I unbutton my shirt. Dee bends at the waist and pushes it off me, her hands grazing my back’s physique appreciatively.