rhythm pulsed through my body. It thrummed through my heart, in my veins, and it was as if my mom was right there with me. Everything was better when I danced. When she danced. I was never as good as she’d been, but then, few were.
The song ended with a final high kick, and my knee nearly brushed my nose as I launched it in the air. The woman instructing gave me a huge smile and announced into the microphone, “We’ve got some serious talent in the audience tonight. I better watch out or I may be out of a job.” A blush splayed across my face and though I couldn’t see it, I could feel it heating all the way up to my hairline. She sent me a wink, and I moved back to where Tate sat, his eyes bugging out, staring.
“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
The adrenaline of dancing and applause hummed inside me and skimmed over my flesh. “I’m an onion, remember?”
“Shit, you’re not an onion. You’re a cake. Still lots of layers to discover, but sweet. Delicious.” He did this funny growl thing and nipped my shoulder before pulling back to examine my face. “Seriously, where did you learn that? Your leg was, like, parallel to your body.”
I didn’t want to explain it. I didn’t want to get sad again or feel all the things that usually went hand in hand with dance for me. Instead, I glanced at Tate’s strong profile, his tanned complexion and sharp cheekbones. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to be. And to enjoy. And in the spirit of following that same instinct that pushed me onto stage, I lifted a hand to Tate’s hair and ran my fingers through it. “I’m going to kiss you,” I said.
His eyes widened and darkened all at once. “You do that, and I’m not going to stop you.”
“Good.” I dragged my thumbs down the sides of his face and pulled his mouth near mine. Parting my lips, I brushed them gently across his, teasing him, taunting him with a promise not yet fulfilled.
He groaned as one hand scooped under my jaw. His fingers trembled against my skin, vibrating with restraint, and he hissed, his lips moving against mine as he spoke. “Shelby, please—”
I didn’t let him finish the plea. Pressing my tongue beyond his lips, I moved my mouth hard against his. He crushed me against his body, his hand landing at my hips and squeezing, pulling me into him. I didn’t resist. I followed my instincts—followed every gut wrenching, aching pull I had to this guy, and so far, it was serving me well.
I arched farther into the kiss, letting my hand slip under his shirt. My fingers trailed over hard, carved muscle, and his skin was just as hot to touch on the outside as I was on the inside.
Distantly, I heard the sound of an announcer. “The show is starting,” I managed to pant, pulling back from his embrace.
“Fuck the fucking show,” he growled, claiming my lips with his once more. His hands roamed over my back in long, possessive sweeps until he curved that hand up the back of my neck, stopping suddenly, just short of my hair. My hair. I had freaked out when he brushed my hair away. More than once, really. And judging from the way his stomach muscles clenched as he nearly reached my hair, he remembered all too well the reaction I had.
“But these tickets must have cost a fortune.”
“Shelby,”—he moved his hands to either side of my face, looking deep into my eyes—“I don’t care how much they cost. You want to get out of here?”
I swallowed. This would take us to the next stage. I didn’t know if I was ready for it. But I knew I wanted to be. “Yeah,” I said. “I want to get out of here.”
I didn’t have to say it twice. Tate had my hand in his, and I don’t know how the hell he got us home in such record time, because next thing I knew, we were clambering off the elevator, falling onto the couch, my mouth latched to his.
The couch dipped beneath our weight, groaning.
Or was that Tate?
His lips landed at the base of my throat, dragging up to my ear with a soft nibble that shot raw, biting heat between my legs. A whimper pushed beyond my tightly pressed lips, and I lifted my pelvis to brush against his,