Page 47 of Letting Go at 40

“No. Just that. I miss dancing.”

Mason picks up his wineglass and swallows the last of his wine. Setting the glass back on the countertop, he stands and rounds the island.

“May I have this dance?” He holds out his hand, looking impeccable even after a night of school-gymnasium gyrations. His royal blue suit fits his slender but strong physique and accentuates the color of his eyes.

I glance down at myself, wearing a pair of pajama pants with notebooks on them and an oversized sweatshirt.

“I’m not exactly dressed for a ballroom.”

“You’re always beautiful, Anna.”

The compliment catches me off guard, and my stupor gives Mason a moment to capture my hand and tug me to him. I catch myself against his firm, solid chest. His heart beats steadily under my palms.

He curls an arm around my lower back.

“There isn’t any music,” I whisper, my throat thick as I inhale the expensive scent of him.

“We don’t need any.” Mason sways right to left, his hips guiding mine to follow his lead. At first, we are inches apart but as we slowly spin, the distance closes.

Mason dips his head. His cheek is near enough I could rub mine against the tempting scruff along his jaw. His breath hits my neck and I tilt my head, telling myself it’s to get more comfortable, but the real reason tickles my flesh. The stretch provides Mason more access to my skin. His nose brushes the column of my throat. The tip drags along the expanse of flesh, giving me chills.

His hand at my lower back fists into the fabric of my sweatshirt. The gentle pressure tugs me closer to him. While our opposite hands were cupped in a perfect pairing for standard dancing, he spins his palm against mine and spreads my fingers, entwining them together and lowering our arms between our chests.

The hand fisted in my sweatshirt releases and coasts up my spine until the heat of his palm cups the back of my neck. His fingers curl into the hair at my nape, holding my head tilted to the side, continuing to expose my skin to him.

I swallow hard as Mason shifts. His lips linger above my neck. There’s a tender spot just above my shoulder. If he nips me . . . Who am I kidding? I don’t want to resist. I want his lips there. I close my eyes in anticipation, in weakening, as I desire his bite. I want to feel his teeth dig into my skin and send me to my knees.

Instead, he steadily drags his mouth back and forth, hovering along the expanse of my neck, but never making contact.

“Beautiful,” he whispers into my ear, and my body vibrates.

My nipples harden. A pulse beats frantically between my thighs. My fingers on his chest curl into his lapel. With my eyes still closed, I inhale, breathing him in. Aware that him is Mason.

I should stop this. I should push him away. But just for a moment, I’m lost in the solidness of his arms wrapped around me. The excitement of his mouth lingering over my flesh, teasing me, tempting me. I’m so turned on I might combust.

A soft kiss comes to my ear, and I freeze.

What am I doing?

Guilt slams into me again but I have no one to blame but myself. I was the one drowning in the moment.

Mason steps back as I stiffen. His fingers slip from my hair, taking their time to untangle from the thick mass. For a moment, the drag of his fingers down my back simulates the unzipping of a dress. One I’m not wearing but wish I was.

Our eyes lock on one another as he steps back, still holding my hand. Then he takes his time to untwine our fingers, pressing our palms together before he finally lets go. I hadn’t realized how hard I’d been gripping his hand until his fingers release mine and they suddenly feel naked without his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Shaking my head, I don’t want him to apologize. For a reason I can’t define, and I don’t think I should try, I don’t want him to regret this moment. Too much remorse lingers between us, and we need to move past it. But what does moving forward look like for us? I can’t deny the guilt, but I also can’t erase the slow-burning feelings I’m developing for this man.

Mason takes another step back, putting more space between us. The distance feels vast while it’s not even a foot apart.

He scratches the back of his neck, flipping up the artful curls before smoothing them back down.

“You and Ben probably used to dance like this.”

I tilt my head. “Like what?”

“Late nights in the kitchen.” He purses his lips, twisting them, before glancing away from me.