“Follow my lead,” I say directly into his ear. “It’s the same basic steps.”
Where salsa is fast paced and energetic, kizomba is slower and sensual. Despite both being partnered dances, kizomba focuses on connection.
I press my chest against his, our faces mere inches apart. His brown eyes are pretty behind the mask. Focusing on the basics, I lead us through a simple side-to-side four count. Once he adjusts to the tempo, it’s smooth sailing.
“I’m going to show you something,” I whisper.
“Got it,” he responds. There’s something familiar about his voice, but I can’t place it.
Momentarily letting go, I demonstrate the slight repetition in the clock step until he nods and we return to the kizomba hold.
His warmth envelopes me as we do the basic side steps, and when I whisper, “Now,” we attempt the clock step.
Our hips align, his left leg resting firmly between my thighs. Maintaining eye contact, not that I could look away if I tried, I keep count. For the first three counts, we move forward and backward. The next three, I step out at an angle, back in, and out again. Our first trial is just that, a trial. But for our second round, Mystery Man bends his knees a little more and adds more hip rotation.
We grind into one another, pressing closer with each repetition.
If I wasn’t so dedicated to myCupid’s Bowplan, I could see myself enjoying a different kind of dance with this guy.
Following the tempo, we move faster or slower as needed, but always stay just inches apart. Close enough to hear each other’s breathing and feel each other’s sweat, but nothing inappropriate.
As the kizomba music slowly comes to an end, I attempt a saida. My sexy dance partner sticks to the basics, watching me step to the side to complete the three-count.
Too caught up in the burning sensation from Mystery Man’s hands on my hips, I collide with another pair of dancers.
One of them falls, snagging the hanging black lace of my mask and taking it down with them.
Grabbing onto Mystery Man is the only thing that preserves my balance.
“Are you alr—Moyo?” he asks.
I finally place the deep, husky voice.
“Niyi?” I ask, secretly hoping I’m wrong.
It’s one thing to dance with a complete stranger at a party and entertain thoughts of hooking up with them. It’s another thing to dance with my not-part-of-the-plan dating coach.
The sexy Mystery Man takes off his mask, and yep, it’s Niyi.
I do what any self-respecting individual would do after sharing an intimate dance with the one person they absolutely shouldn’t be rolling hips with—I scurry away, leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor.
Not my finest moment…but it is better than standing there, making awkward small talk as I take in his toned, sweaty body. Nowthatwould be detrimental to the plan.
And who am I if I abandon my plan?
16Niyi
WAITING FOR MOYO FOR OUR POST-DATE DEBRIEF ISfucking with me. Even the busy, late-afternoon coffee shop atmosphere fails to distract and I find myself zoning out even more.
After the events of two nights ago, in every spare moment, I recall the sensation of Moyo’s body against mine. Dancing kizomba together, with our bodies melting into each other, was bliss.
I’m constantly transported to that night. Her hands draped across my neck, her hips in harmony with mine, heavy breaths exchanged in the space between us. Conversation was not on the menu, just whispered minor instructions that I readily complied with.
But despite that lovely moment, I need to remain focused onCupid’s Bow, not the feeling of Moyo’s soft skin.
My fingers run through the questionnaire that wrecked our last meeting. Maybe second time’s the charm? After all, she is still willing to meet with me. From the way she sprinted away when she learned I was the man behind the mask the other night, I thought she’d request another coach.
Thankfully, that didn’t happen because I need to fix my algorithm.
