to the Caribbean jazz, drinking brightly colored cocktails, and having a great time. I knew the island was a haven for the rich and famous, so it wasn’t a surprise to see what looked like a few models and a young male pop star amidst the revelers, a mix of locals and tourists. Warm red lighting gave the ambiance a sensual haze. It matched how I was already feeling.
Once we were seated at the bar, I was dazzled by the array of options on the menu. Windsurfing had given me an insane appetite, but I couldn’t decide on anything.
“What’ll it be?” Ford asked.
“Gah! I want it all,” I blurted.
“We can swing that,” he said with a laugh, motioning over a waiter and telling him to bring us a sushi boat for two.
“An entire boat full of sushi?” I gasped.
“It’s a small boat,” Ford said, a gleam in his eye. “I’m sure you can handle it.”
As we downed our first course of hot miso soup, I tried not to stare at my husband. He just looked so delicious in his crisp white shirt, and my stomach did this little flip whenever I glanced over at him. Occasionally, our eyes would meet, and I’d feel the heat from his gaze spread through my entire body. It was impossible not to blush, though I was certain he couldn’t tell in the red light of the bar.
And then the boat arrived.
Hot damn.
The huge platter was oblong and held a selection of sushi, sashimi, maki, and seaweed. Salmon, yellowfin tuna, mahi, smoked eel (I’d been late to the eel party, but once I’d given it a shot in my early twenties, it had quickly become one of my favorite types of sushi)—everything was fresh, and the sweet, salty, tangy flavors exploding on my tongue had me dancing in my chair. Or maybe that was the music.
I liked jazz generally, but the energy of this band was something else. The drums, the guitar, the saxophone, the thump of the bass that was so strong I could feel it vibrating from the floor up through my barstool. As the songs washed over me, I soaked up the vibrant sounds and let loose a series of shoulder shimmies that had Ford laughing and joining in.
We ate until we couldn’t stand another bite, getting tipsy on sake all the while. I was sure we’d be heading back to our villa afterward. We’d just spent the entire day pushing our bodies to their limit, and I knew we’d both be sore in the morning. But as Ford signed the check, he began nodding along with the music, looking over toward the stage area where people were cheering and writhing together on the dance floor.
He slapped the pen down, tucked his wallet away, and held out his hand.
“Dance with me, Em,” he said with a grin, tugging me out of my seat.
I couldn’t resist.
He led me to the dance floor, and I clung to his hand as we wove our way through the crowd. It was hot and steamy with all the people crushed together, dancing and sweating and singing along with the music. I could barely hear myself think, swept up in the hectic verve of it all, and I loved it. As we hit the floor, I let the music take over. I felt free and alive and unself-conscious, anonymous in a way I never would have if we were home in Chicago.
Dancing, it turned out, was therapeutic. I could finally get all my wild, pent-up energy out. I spun and thrashed and swished my hips, trying to work it out of my system. In the dim light, I could see Ford’s eyes glued to me, and it just made me even more wild. In fact, I felt powerful. My husband could watch me all he wanted. Let him eat his heart out.
When the song ended, I was sweating and out of breath. I’d never felt better. I was just about to ask Ford if we could head home when the music slowed to a sultry beat, and he spun me around and circled his arms around my waist. His body was pressed so close to mine that I let out a little moan, and that’s when he started grinding against me from behind. Almost without thinking, I pushed back, sliding my hips side to side, my ass brushing his crotch. It was less like dancing and more like giving him a lap dance standing up. He didn’t seem