Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
I show him the most basic moves, but he struggles, second-guesses himself with each step. I’m stepping on his toes, and I don’t step on toes. But he has the same issue I had when I started taking the classes.
When he stops again, he waits for me to move.
“Just wait,” I say. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Every time you think about a move, or what I told you, if you step the wrong way, you stop and start thinking about what I said or what we’re supposed to be doing. Don’t do that.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Keep moving. It’s what my teacher said to me when I took tango classes for the first time. The temptation is to stop and figure out what you did wrong and correct it, but sometimes rather than stopping and trying to figure everything out, you have to keep moving and kind of feel your way back into the rhythm of the music. Just bust a move and own it.”
“Own it?”
“Like even if it’s wrong, go with it. Don’t second-guess yourself and get all in your head, psyching yourself out. I know what I’m doing, so I can help you find the rhythm. But if you keep stopping like that, it’s gonna take us forever, and I might as well be doing this myself.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll try.”
“It’s not a ‘try’ thing. You either keep going or you stop.”
We get back into our starting position, and I lead again. This time, as he fumbles, we keep moving, and it takes a bit, but it’s easier to help him figure out the movements. I talk him through forward ocho, back ocho, and cut ocho. As he starts to get the hang of it, he smirks, “I’m not so bad.”
“I could have told you that from the dance floor the other night. It’s a shame we’re wasting it on tango right now.”
“Maybe we should take tango classes together.”
That sounds nice. I think I would really enjoy that.
“I teach you three easy moves, and you’re certain you’re like a tango champion.”
Although as I say that, he missteps, but this time, moves right into it like I told him.
“Well, you fucked it up, so you’re not that great,” I say.
He grins and winks. “But I’m totally owning it.”
I can’t keep from laughing. “Yes, you are.”
“You think I’m pretty good, admit it.”
“I’m not admitting anything. You’ve already got a big enough head as it is.”
“Yes, I do.”
He stops dancing, takes my hand, and guides it down to that familiar spot.
I look into those hungry eyes—something I’m only thinking because this whole situation’s got scenes from Dirty Dancing running through my head on repeat.
He could hoist me into the air, carry me over to the couch, and take me right now, his big hands clawing at my body, his mouth against mine as he claims my tongue with his. I imagine that cock inside me, how good it would feel as I twist and turn, enjoying the sensation of him jamming into my prostate again and again and…
Now I’m really fucking hard.
I want to quit practicing dancing and do for each other what we’ve both wanted to do for too fucking long, but I’m apprehensive.
I want him, but do I want to lose the special connection we have? Do I want to fuck him like I’d fuck anybody else? And then for him not to call or text the next day? Because that’s how it always goes down.
Jackson’s gaze wanders. He pulls my hand away from his crotch like he’s reconsidered his advance.
He must know he could have me if he wanted, but I’m kind of relieved that he has to think twice about it. Reminds me that he sees me as more than a fuck. That he has some honor and integrity.
I don’t make any jokes about it. Don’t even mention it as we continue practicing until it’s time for him to leave for work.
The fact that we didn’t mess around makes what we did feel so special.
I’m glad we didn’t fuck, but what am I thinking? I should have fucked him.
I’m Derek. That’s all I ever want.
That’s what everyone in this town believes, at least. I don’t know. Maybe I’m starting to believe it too.
15
Jackson
As I sit in the bus with Frankie, I realize I might be losing my goddamned mind.
When I’d walked into Derek’s condo the other day and seen him in his leggings, his tight little ass on display, I’d just wanted to fuck—plain and simple. I’d wanted my dick between his taut cheeks, wanted to rip the fucking material off him and sink inside and hear him scream my name while I took him.
That reaction is normal. It’s not the one that has me concerned. The rest of what happened next is where I get a little fucked up.