He makes a face. “I’m not good at it.”
“That’s never stopped anyone,” I say.
He breathes out, long and uneven. “Do you always get what you want?”
“No.” I mean it.
He studies my face, searching for the lie. “Feels like you do.”
I hold his gaze, then look at the glass in his hand. “Finish that,” I say, and he obeys.
The second it’s gone, he puts the empty on the table, like a challenge.
“Good,” I say. I set my own glass down next to his. “Come on.”
He hesitates, just for a second, but then lets me pull him up. His body is solid, denser than he looks, and his hand is warm in mine.
I walk us to the center of the room. There’s nothing to trip over, nothing to get in the way except the force fields of our own discomfort.
I let him stand there, not moving, until the tension is unbearable. Then I put my hands on his waist, gentle, not guiding yet.
He doesn’t resist. His hands hover at my shoulders, not quite touching.
“Like this,” I say, and move his hands to the right spot. He follows, and for a second, our eyes meet.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says.
“That’s the point,” I say, and start to move.
He follows, awkward at first, but he’s a quick study. I can feel the tremor in his body, the way he’s trying to anticipate my nextstep, but after a few bars, he stops fighting it. I keep my hold firm, my lead decisive.
His breath is warm on my collarbone. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice small.
I let him feel the pressure of my hand at his back, the weight of the question. “Because I want to. And because I don’t think just shoving my cock in your ass will endear you to me.”
He’s silent, but I can see the pulse in his throat, the way his skin prickles at my touch.
We move together, slow, the rhythm less important than the proximity. I tighten my grip, pulling him flush against me. His hands shift, uncertain, then settle around my neck.
He’s so close now that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. His lips are slightly parted, breath quickening.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
He laughs, soft. “I’m nervous.”
I lower my voice. “You should be.”
I guide him, turning us so the city spins around us. He lets his head drop, eyes closed. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll pull away, but instead he presses in, just a little, as if testing to see if I’ll allow it.
I do.
The song ends, fades into something even slower. I don’t stop.
“Have you ever danced like this?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I rest my cheek against his hair, just for a second, and feel the shudder run through him.
