ankle to show me her hiking boot, but I kick out my foot to show her mine. Rita huffs, closing her eyes while I remain holding her hand in mine. “No, really. I can’t dance, as in I don’t know how.”
I stare, disbelieving her. “Rita. That can’t be true. Everyone can dance. It’s like sex. You just know how to do it, and you use your body in almost the same way.”
Her mouth falls open as I glance down at myself and sway my hips, lifting an arm for the back of my head.
“First off, handsome. If that’s how you have sex, you’re gonna hurt yourself.” She laughs. “And second, I don’t do that either, so I wouldn’t know.”
I stop moving and stare at her. “You don’t do what?” I ask, swallowing around the fear of what she’ll say next.
“I don’t have sex.”
Mother of all things holy. My eyes widen, and Rita’s mood sobers again. “I mean, I know how, but I haven’t . . . and the last time just wasn’t . . .” Rita pulls at her hands and slips free of mine, but I capture one of her wrists to keep us connected.
“Relax,” I say quietly, stroking my thumb over the veins at her wrist. “We’ll take it slow.”
“I am not having sex with you,” Rita blurts, and I’m the one to let out a snort.
“As if,” I state. “I meant we’ll take the dancing slowly.” Not releasing her wrist, I lift my phone again and scroll through my music. Finding something I think she’ll like, I smile slowly. Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain” fills the room. The song is all Rita. She’s fire, and I’m rain, and I’m burning for her. I turn the volume down a bit, then toss the phone to the couch and place my hands at Rita’s hips.
“Just follow my lead.”
“This is stupid,” she mutters.
“Good thing it’s only me then,” I jest, glancing down at where my hands are placed. “It might help if you touch me.”
Her head pops up, and our eyes meet. “I mean, place your hands on my shoulders.” Rita does, but she’s stiff. As the song begins, I move her by guiding her hips.
“Side to side,” I state, leading her with a subtle double bounce with each sway. As Adele carries on, I slip an arm around Rita’s lower back and clasp her hand in mine, holding her in a typical dance stance. As the tempo builds, I swing Rita around and dip her to the singer’s rising voice. Our eyes meet as I right her before we dance faster, our hips coming closer to match the rhythm.
“You’re doing it,” I mutter, pride in my voice as Rita follows my lead, and I hum the lyrics about fire and rain, and all things burning between them. Rita slowly begins to relax in my arms, following the sway of my hips and the gentle thrust of my pelvis near hers. The song is energizing while seductive, and it might have been a poor selection, but I’m not letting Rita go now that I have her in my arms. Let her fire burn my rain. I’ll take the torture.
As the song ends, I bend for my phone on the couch but don’t release my hand at Rita’s hip. I quickly find another song I enjoy although it’s more somber. John Hiatt’s “Feels Like Rain” is a sultry song about rain and love, and keeping my voice low, I sing. Rita watches my lips as I murmur, and the anxiety she had over dancing slips into me with my singing.
“I don’t have much of a voice,” I whisper.
“I like it,” Rita quietly says, but her eyes say more. Heat flames in those blue orbs. Our bodies are responding to each other as my lower half presses against hers. Her breasts rest on my chest, but she doesn’t dip her head. She watches me.
When that song ends, I pick one more, knowing I need a break from holding Rita in my arms. She’s too close, and I want to kiss her again. Like the rain, I’m thirsting for something more with this woman.
The next song begins, and I step back from Rita, belting out the opening rap. “Come on, Rita. Give me your best Flashdance moves.”
“You cannot be serious,” she teases.
“Totally serious,” I state, moving to the beat and holding out my fisted hand like it’s a microphone. Rita slowly follows my lead, exaggerating her leaning hips, swinging her arms back