You could hear every damn woman in the room gasp or hum in appreciation. The band made it real sexy. Slowed the tempo, let the instruments breathe, and gave the melody room to seduce you.
Folks started getting up. Whole couples sliding out of their chairs like they were back in high school, about to grind in a slow circle like it was prom night.
“You gone dance with me?” I teased, already halfway standing.
He reached out a hand like a gentleman. “Hell Yeah.”
I slid into his arms, and the moment his hands hit my waist, my knees turned to gumbo.
The band kept playing, and we moved in sync. I had my arms around his neck, his forehead leaning into mine, both of us swaying like nobody else was in the room. Like we were slow-cooking something tender with our bodies.
The saxophone hit that run and I whispered, “Mmm, I forgot how good slow music feels in your bones.”
He chuckled low in my ear, “You tryna start something in public?”
“I mean…” I shrugged, eyes sparkling. “This is New Orleans. Public indecency here feels like a rite of passage.”
He laughed, leaned in, and kissed me soft.
Once.
Twice.
Then his hands slid lower and the third kiss turned into a whole make-out session. Right there on the dance floor in front of God and everybody. I didn’t care. Nobody cared. Hell, other couples were doing the same thing. Because when the music is good, the food is on the way, and the man in front of you feels like a poem you finally understand, you let go.
And baby, I was gone.
13
Lyrix
We were tipsy, full, and grinning like we’d just stolen something from the city.
Because maybe we had.
We stole moments and memories. A night that we’d both carry in our bones long after the beads stopped swinging and the music went quiet.
We made it back to the hotel, giggling over the way that last slow dance at the club turned into a whole performance. Maison was tipsy too, but still composed, still that smooth-ass man with the deep voice and warm hands that knew exactly where to guide me.
He walked me to my room, and I don’t know what came over me, but I couldn’t stop looking at him like he was dessert.
Not just any dessert. The kind you keep saying you’re too full for, but somehow your fork still finds its way back into the plate.
The moment the door shut behind us… We were on each other.
No hesitation.
No slow build.
Just lips. Hands. Breath. Tongue. Fire.
He picked me up and sat me on the dresser, kissing my neck like he knew every tender spot. My legs wrapped around his waist, his hands slid up under my dress, and I swear I saw stars. Not from the wine. From him. The way he touched me, like he’d studied me. Like his hands had been there in a past life.
Clothes peeled off slow. We didn’t even make it to the bed, so he bent me over the dresser, whispering filthy promises in my ear.
We made it to the bed eventually.
Then the wall.
