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He chuckles. “We can’t all be Shakira.”
I shimmy my hips in response and he grins. I twist and bob my way through three songs before a slow song starts. Tom stands and holds out his hand. “Feeling brave?”
There are six feet between us, but all the air is suddenly sucked out of the room.
Slow dancing.
Chest to chest, hip to hip, upper bodies entangled.
My automatic tension pisses me off. This is Tom. He’s safe. I’ve spent all evening alone with him, side by side, our arms touching, even having a third glass of wine because I know he’d never hurt me.
He lowers his hand. “It’s okay, Charlie.”
“Just gimme a minute.” My breathing picks up speed as my heart pounds, but it only makes me more determined. “Talk.”
Chocolate brown eyes flicker uncertainly to mine.
“Talk to me about dancing.” My words sound like a plea.
Dammit.
His gaze softens. “If we were dancing, I would hold your hand in mine right here,” he closes his left hand over his heart, “and put my right hand on your hip. And we would stand close and move together with the music.”
Breathe.
Tom is safe.
Like a drowning woman, I drag in a deep gulp of air before stepping toward him. He meets me halfway. I slip my fingers inside his. He curls his massive hand loosely around mine and tucks it against his chest, smiling. He stands patiently, his stance wide, his body relaxed. I pause, heart pounding, then take his right hand and place it on my hip.
“You’re doing great.” His sincerity startles me because I’m still pissed at myself. “Now you decide where to put your other hand.”
I stare at my left hand before stepping closer, skimming my hand up his chest to the top of his shoulder and leaning my head against his broad chest. In my bare feet, I barely reach his shoulder. I’m close enough to smell his soapy scent, and I pray my trembling escapes his notice.
No such luck.
“Please don’t be afraid of me, Charlie,” he says quietly. “I’d never hurt you.”
I look up, meeting his eyes steadily. “If I were afraid of you, I wouldn’t be doing this.”
He smiles and slowly sways with the music. I join in and find myself relaxing within a couple of minutes. Some of it is the wine, I’m sure, but most of it is Tom.
Two songs later, his chest rumbles under my cheek. He’s chuckling. I realize I’ve absently begun tracing the muscles of his shoulder with my fingertips.
“You’ve melted,” he teases, gesturing down our bodies with our joined hands.
It’s true. I’m leaning into him, chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and I’m not the least bit anxious. “I told you I wasn’t afraid of you. You make me feel safe.”
He kisses my forehead. “You’re always safe with me.”
Two more slow songs play before the playlist changes back to something faster paced. I sigh when I step out of the warm circle of his arms.
He grins at my reluctance. “That’s definitely progress.”
I hide my smile. “You’re warm and cuddly, like a bear.” I point to his huge hands. “You’ve even got the paws for it.”
He laughs out loud and tugs a lock of my hair. “C’mon. I want some of that dessert.”
“Good. I need a picture of you eating sprinkle ice cream for blackmailing purposes.”
