It is pure torture, having her this close, and yet it’s all I have ever wanted. Her skin, warm beneath my fingertips, calls to the part of me that swore off relationships in my teens to declare him an idiot. Her ass is tantalizingly within reach, but not mine to touch.Yet. But it’s her eyes, big and almost blue in the morning light, that hold me hostage.
“What’s stopping you?” Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, but I hear every word she says—and doesn’t say. “Why not push me against the wall and take me?”
The mental image of me doing exactly that flashes before my eyes and I can’t help but grin. “Your brother would kill me if I did.”
Her fingers travel along the hard planes of my chest, her eyes following the movement with surprising interest. Selfishly, I hope she feels the hard muscle underneath. That she imagines what my chest would look like bare, how it would feel pressed up against hers. That it turns her on the way she turns me on.
“I thought you weren’t afraid of anyone?”
“I’m not. But I am afraid of fucking this up,” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my hand lingering on her cheek, savoring the feeling of having her in my arms.Mine.“If I hurt you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”
I hold her gaze. What I wouldn’t give to kiss her right now, hard and frenzied and wanting, and show her exactly how I feel about her. Better yet, hoist her up onto the counter to make herfeelit, just like she’s asking of me now, and make her come again and again with my name on those pretty lips.
All air leaves my lungs as her eyes move to my lips. “Who says I’m going to get hurt? I know what this is. I know that it’s over as soon as we’ve won.”
And it is a stupid, stupid move, but I’m a stupid boy. I lean in even closer, our foreheads pressed together, my eyes on hers so she can see exactly how serious I am as I whisper, “Sunshine, when I get my way with you, neither of us will want this to stop.”
Chapter 11
Alexis
If someone askedme what the epitome of romance was, you would never find me saying dance.
Books and movies do a great job of romanticizing the shit out of it, with grand ballrooms, beautiful dresses and stares filled with longing and desire. But out here in the real world, dancing means cramped studios, buckets of sweat, and too many people in your personal space.
Which is why, when I heard that our first official date for the contest was a salsa class, I wanted to fake an illness at once.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that Blake had to drag me into the car.
He had to drop by the house first to change, and though I’ve been at their place dozens of times over the years this time felt different. Not just because Rafael kept a shit-eating grin on his face when we walked in or because they kept telling me where Blake’s room was and that I shouldn’t be afraid to go with him. But because seeing me and Blake together seems to have shifted his teammates’ idea of me. No longer am I Levi’s quiet sister, easy to forget, boring to flirt with. Now, I’m Blake’s girlfriend.Off-limits. Kind of cool, in her own way. Or she must be if Blake’s willing to put up with her.
We almost kissed this morning—again—and like the other night we kind of brushed over it and went on with our day, though the tension is still there simmering underneath every little touch, every stolen glance. And there have been a lot of those.
Now here we are, in a ballet studio across town, with massive windows on one side and a wall of mirrors on the other. The film crew is larger than I expected, with massive cameras and boom mics scattered across the cramped studio, while we and two dozen other couples are packed like sardines on the dance floor.
How wonderful.
At least I have Blake here with me, whose absentminded touches are strangely comforting. Though after this morning, it’s hard to know where we stand. He hinted at wanting something more, and though I’d be hard-pressed to admit it out loud the thought has crossed my mind, too. But I can’t think about that now.
Not when I have to stay focused on not stepping on anyone’s toes. Literally.
The girl who took our sign-ups, Paris, skips to the front of the room after our warm-up and takes her place standing on a chair. She’s even smaller than my mother, with glossy blond hair and bold makeup that I’m sure makes her stand out in every room. “Hello everyone! You might have noticed our new friends—it’s because we have been keeping a little secret from you guys. We have partnered with a local television channel to broadcast this competition! Isn’t that exciting?”
It’s clear Paris expected us to be elated, but no one cheers. In fact, it’s groans and protests that dominate the room. No one signed up to be on actual television.
Our reaction flusters Paris, as she stammers. “Well, we like it, anyway. Nevertheless, this fun opportunity comes with some rule changes, so listen up!”
Another girl, slightly taller and with big, round glasses, joins Paris on a chair and clutches a list. Her voice is softer, slightly shaking, as if it takes everything in her might to get the words out. “Each week, two couples will be eligible for elimination, voted on by our viewers. Any proof of fraudulent behavior means instant disqualification. Voting is possible only through our website and ends one week after each date, with the eliminated couples being sought out on campus for a final interview. And we’re on TV now, so let’s keep things PG!”
I roll my eyes, though I feel a knot form in my stomach. This stupid announcement has raised the stakes tenfold.
We can’t falter, not for a moment.
It helps a little that we’re not the only fakes in the room. A few rows down are two of Alissa’s friends, who I know don’t play for the other’s team, and to the other side of the room there’s a couple who can’t even look at each other. If we’re more believable than them, we might survive the first round at least.
Only now do I notice the crew has changed. There’s the students, sure, but they hover around the new cameramen, hoping to pick up a thing or two. The new guys are older, more burly, and almost uncaring as they dart around the room to pick up shots of us. Years of reality TV has taught me that those who get the most airtime often win the competition, so whatever we do, we have to be interesting enough to catch their attention.
Paris and her friend have left to join the others to the side, with our instructors taking their place. They can’t be older than forty, with muscles to rival even Blake’s.Dancing is no joke.They jump right into it, and though I try to copy their moves I fail miserably. Damn those mirrors. Now I’m going to look like an idiot!
