Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(61)

If I wanted a life with Ethan—one that held no demands or kept no expectations yet promised equal footing, rather than one that had me always playing second fiddle—then I’d have to leave them all behind. I couldn’t be so close to Ransom and hold myself apart from him. We didn’t work that way.

Could I do that?

Probably not.

Did I want to?

God, no.

It was struggling with that dilemma that had me seeking out the isolation of my studio hours later, alone with the heat crowding the air and looping tracks on the sound system pushing me into a solitary dance. It was the only way to work out what I needed instead of obsessing over what I wanted. Every time I thought I had accepted the obviously smart decision—a life of security and consistency, of personal fulfillment—something else would pull me back into questioning my head and my heart.

There was a lull in the music. One track ended and the crackle of white noise left a chill over my skin. I’d landed in position on that last downbeat. The vibration from the music still faded around me as I lowered my arms, as the sweat on my back slid down my spine.

And then, a different awareness slipped into my bones. My body was not cold. There were no tremors from the drop in temperature. There was only that warm, buzzing sensation that came to me anytime Ransom was near.

Another dance was about to begin, one that hadn’t seemed to end. Not since he came back home. Not even since the night of the recital when I promised someone else I’d love them forever. Ransom had not let me go, had not stopped wanting to dance that dance with me.

I didn’t need to look up, or glance across that mirrored wall to know he was there. My body knew him, my heart did. I didn’t retreat, though I knew I probably should have. This would end in heartache, all of it. I was pretty sure that my mind was made up. There couldn’t be a future. Not the one he wanted. Not one where what I needed was an afterthought.

But maybe, just one more time, I could say goodbye.

A final goodbye.

A real one. Before it was too late and I would be beyond goodbyes.

I did nothing but lift my gaze to his silhouette when the music started up again. The same song that we’d danced to a million times before. Old by now, but constant. I’d danced to Wicked Games for Ransom years ago, when he didn’t know it was me. When I wore a mask that kept me well hidden. Now there were no masks. There was nothing but his solid body coming right at me and the Weeknd’s sultry, filthy promises pouring from the speakers.

Ransom stalked his prey, stripping off his hoodie, his beanie, letting them fall on the floor until he stood behind me. Until his arm came around my waist, pulling me against him, moving with the music, demanding that I do the same.

Like before, I let the music pour into my cells. I let him lead—Ransom’s soft, gentle fingers on my bicep, in the bend of my elbow, directing my arm up. He always led me. Had he ever stopped?

“Move for me.” He wasn’t asking and because I was weak, because I was helpless when he had me—when I let him mold me like putty—I listened.

The sway of hips, limbs, bodies only inches, a fraction of that, apart. This was more erotic, closer than any Kizomba we’d ever danced before. It felt natural. It felt right and when Ransom dipped me, holding my waist, making me arch, I exaggerated the movement, driving my shoulders back as he held me, swayed my body so that my arms almost touched the floor before he lifted me, still dancing, my legs around his waist, his hands dragging up my back.

Now we danced differently. We forgot technique. We forgot everything but the heat collecting between us. We only knew the feel of fingers over damp skin, of mouths separated by hesitation.

“Aly…” I knew what he was asking in the slow, soft release of my name. I knew what he wanted when he lowered us to floor, when he kept those large hands on my hips, when he leaned over me, blocking out the low light overhead. “Nani…makamae”

Ethan’s face swam in my mind. How he urged me to examine what I felt. Is that what this was? Ransom over me, the smell of his body as the room heated, as we did—was I allowing this because I intended to say goodbye?

Hands over my eyes, I patted my damp face dry, stilling completely when he lifted my left hand, looking down at the ring I hadn’t found the courage to take off.

“Do you really want this?” He didn’t look at me when he spoke, like that diamond had him mesmerized.

“I…I don’t know. In a way, yes, but... I’m…Ethan wants me to really think about what I want. I’ve been trying to figure that out—what I really want.”

Ransom’s attention left my ring in a millisecond. His gaze jumped from that diamond to my face. He didn’t need to say a word for me to know what he thought. That beautiful face was expressive, open. There was no tension in his features, nothing to make his face look hard or pinched. No lift of his eyebrows as though my admission had surprised him.

I recognized that expression for what it was.

Hunger.

He intended to convince me what I wanted. Really wanted.

My brain fired off warnings. They came in a litany of screams, all telling me to run out of the room, to not let his desires overwhelm mine. All insisting that I ignore the rage of my body, what it wanted, what I tried to convince myself it needed. I let him drag me under like I had since the night of the recital. I felt like I was drowning, but damn, it had my pulse quickening.