It’s just a dance hold. I’ve done this a thousand times. With him, with other partners, with students who had sweaty palms and questionable rhythm. This is nothing.
Except his thumb is tracing that same small circle it always traces, and now I know he does it deliberately. Now I know exactly how that thumb feels against bare skin. Against the curve of my hip. Against the hollow of my throat as he tilted my head back and?—
I miss the turn.
“Interesting.” Mal catches me before I stumble, his arm tightening around my waist. “Usually it’s my technique you’re critiquing.”
“I didn’t miss anything.”
“You turned left instead of right.”
“The choreography is?—”
“Something we’ve drilled approximately forty-seven times.” His face is very close to mine. Close enough that I can see those odd little crimson sparks in his eyes, the slight curve of his lips. “But please, continue insisting you’re not distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.”
“Then why are you blushing?”
“I’m not—” My hand flies to my cheek. Warm. Damn it. “The studio is hot.”
“It’s sixty-two degrees. I checked the thermostat when I arrived.”
“You checked the... Why would you check the thermostat?”
“Because I wanted to know exactly how long it would take before you blamed your physiological responses on the temperature.” His smile widens. “Seventeen minutes. I won the bet with myself.”
“You are insufferable.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t release me. We’re still frozen in a bastardized version of the corté, my weight supported entirely by his arms. “I’ve been called worse. Usually by people less interesting than you.”
I should step back and put space between us, pretend that yesterday didn’t happen.
Yesterday definitely happened.
“The showcase is in three weeks.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “We don’t have time for... whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” he repeats. “Would you like me to define it? I could use small words, if that would help.”
“I know what it is.”
“Do you? Because you’ve been avoiding eye contact since I walked in, and every time I touch you, you flinch like I’ve burned you.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“You definitely flinch.” He releases me slowly, letting his hand drag across my lower back before falling away entirely. “It’s adorable.”
“Stop calling me adorable.”
“Stop being adorable.”
“I am a professional?—”
“Dance instructor, yes, you’ve mentioned.” He walks to the barre, leaning against it with infuriating casualness. “You’re also a woman who kissed me like she was trying to consume my soul last night, and I find the cognitive dissonance fascinating.”
My face flames.
I kissed him. I grabbed his collar and let him show me exactly how much trouble he could be, and then I spent an hour learning the answer, and now I have to look at him and pretend I’m thinking about choreography instead of?—
