Fifteen long minutes later—it had taken longer than he expected to escape Luna—Dane nudged the studio door open with his foot, relieved when it didn’t squeal and give him away. He eased his shoulder into the doorframe, arms folded, letting himself look.
And, God, there she was.
Wren seemed completely lost in her own world. Her cropped orange top slid off one shoulder, bright against her skin, flashing her smooth, flat stomach every time she moved. The loose dance pants, knotted to keep them from sliding down her sexy hips, stopped mid-calf, showing off her elegant feet and the musical note tattoo on the inside of her ankle. It was very Wren.
She looked exactly like what she was—a professional dancer. But to him? She was a fist in his gut, a punch he hadn’t been prepared for.
He couldn’t pull his eyes off her.
She moved across the floor to a haunting melody, her body flowing, her moves smooth and sure. She dipped, swayed, spun, lifted her body into the air, and Dane sucked in a breath as she fell to the floor, the air escaping as she rolled, leg extended into the air, her toes pointed at the ceiling. Stopping abruptly, she rested her forehead on the floor.
Then, in one fluid movement, she stood up and walked over to the sound system, cutting the music. Silence filled the studio.
“The choreography is too complicated. The kids’ll find the music boring,” she said, speaking to herself. He watched as she scrolled through her phone and what he presumed was her extensive collection of tunes. A pulsing beat, hot and hard, filled the studio. Dane, by no means a music aficionado, immediately thought of a hot club, sweaty bodies grinding together, sex and booze in the air.
“I could fuck you day or night…” The rapper’s words were completely clear, and Dane winced. Well, he could, easily. Wren just needed to give him the word…
He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, willing the party in his pants to subside. He wasn’t a teenager anymore; he could control himself. Then his eyes dropped to Wren’s slim back and shapely butt, and he immediately doubted his statement. There was nothing he wanted more than to plaster her up against that wall, run his hands over his body, and feast on her mouth.
“Nope. Too in your face,” Wren said into the silence. She scrolled again, and soon the same tune he recognized from dance practice on Friday filled the room. Wren moved into the center and immediately dropped into what looked like a complicated combination of steps, something he couldn’t follow.
“Something like that, but slower. Less,” she said, lifting her eyes to the mirror. It was the first time she’d looked at herself since he’d arrived, and he wondered if she saw what he did, a sexy woman immersed in her craft. He shifted, and the small movement caught her attention, and her eyes slammed into his.
Dane cursed himself, thinking he could watch her forever. He lifted his hand and smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Wren pushed her hair off her forehead. “How long have you been standing there?”
He shrugged. “Five minutes?” He stepped into the room, walked over to her, and pushed one of the containers he held into her hand. “Milky iced Americano, double shot, they said it was your go-to drink in summer. You look like you need it.”
She took the cup and immediately lifted the straw to her mouth, sucking enthusiastically, her mouth pursed. Dane had to look at the ceiling again. “Thanks. God, I needed that.”
Wren pulled her shirt away from her chest and flapped it to cool herself down. Under the shirt, she wore a practical sports bra. The sexy ring in her belly button flashed. “It’s hot in here,” she said.
That could be because the chemistry between them was giving off some serious heat, but he wasn’t going to mention it. He looked around instead. “Aircon?” he asked.
“I forgot to put it on,” Wren admitted, then arched an eyebrow. “Besides, getting sweaty is part of the creative process.”
With her, sweaty meant smelling a little sweet, but not sugary. Her scent, always something he was highly tuned into, changed with the heat, and maybe even with her mood. When it reached and curled around him, he thought of blood oranges and sunlight. And bare shoulders. The hint of salt on skin and dangerous decisions.
Handing him her half-empty cup to hold, she pulled her top up and over her torso and walked to the bench to switch on the aircon. Then she picked up a towel, wiping it across her face and glistening throat, and down to her chest. He swallowed and looked out of the window. Fuck, this was torture.
Wren rubbed the back of her neck and gestured to the window. “I saw Luna ambush you,” she stated. “What does she want?”
“Same old story; she wants me to buy the medical practice.”
Wren sighed. “She’s like a dog with a bone,” she admitted, sitting and placing one foot on the bench. How would her flexibility translate in the bedroom?
Jesus, Trafford, get it together!
“Being a family doctor holds no interest for you at all?” Wren asked, pulling her cup from his hand. Her fingers brushed his, and fire slipped into his veins.Awesome.Just what he needed. The solution was to stop looking at her, so he sat down on the bench and stretched out his legs.
“None. Besides, I have a job.”
“A job that lets you take a long vacation,” she commented. “Not many allow that.”
“Yours does,” he pointed out.
“But there are lots of talented choreos. I doubt there are that many trauma surgeons who specialize in disaster zones.” It was clear she suspected there was more to him being in H-Town, but he wasn’t ready to bite. Wren put down her now empty cup, picked up his and took a healthy gulp of strong black. She wrinkled her nose. “Would it hurt you to put some milk in it, Trafford?”
