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Chapter One
At twenty-five,Amira Hadid was more than eager to have her cherry popped.
Which was kind of hard to do when she still lived with her ultraconservative parents.
Parents who viewed every guy they hadn’t approved as a threat to her chastity. Not that the family home was an ideal place for wild, debauched sex parties. Or even tame ones for that matter. But as they still thought it was acceptable to walk into her room without knocking, she figured bringing a guy home for a sexy romp wouldn’t exactly be a private affair.
Because of this, Amira had become adept at leading a double life: dutiful daughter and seamstress by day, tango and sex addict by night.
Though, perhaps she had to have sex first before she qualified for that title.
Except she didn’t want sex with just any man. She may have been a virgin in heat, but she was a picky one. And until Mr. Great Sex came along, she would have to live with her virgin status a little while longer.
Stepping over the slick cobblestones, Amira rolled her shoulders, stiff after a long day at work. She had stayed back late, again, after her current Bridezilla demanded even more alterations on her dress. If she had to sew one more bead on that hem, Miss It’s My Day would surely topple over.
She weaved in and out of alleyways passing many of the hidden clubs, cocktail lounges, and dance halls nestled in Melbourne’s CBD. By the end of the week, Amira was eager for a man’s touch. This Thursday proved no different.
Tango was a release. Not necessarily the one she was after, but a way to rid herself of the heavy weight of duty that dogged her waking hours. Though lately, dancing the Argentine tango seemed to heighten her desire for something…
Not a relationship exactly. Not a fuck buddy either.
A lover.
She savored the word on her tongue.
Yes, a lover. Where there would be an exchange of intimacy, affection and smoking hot sex. She bit her lip to stop the fanciful grin; she was used to hiding her thoughts from others.
When she finally got the money and the courage to move out, she would buy an apartment in the city. Not just any apartment. She had her eye on one of the stunning Art Deco designed buildings, a relic of the old Melbourne quarter. The three-story building was nestled in the heart of Collins Street; known for fashion, food and fucking hot men in suits.
Once that apartment was hers, she would address her virgin status. And dismantle it like a demolition worker at a construction site—with unbridled gusto and carefree abandon.
Naturally, Amira blamed her parents for her current sexless status. She had been deprived of men for too long. Her hunger for sex was like the air surrounding her, heavy and close. Demanding to be satisfied.
She had an all-consuming need to be filled. She woke up with it, showered with it, went to bed every single night, unsatisfied with it. The yearning accompanied her every hour; a throbbing, heady drum beat that echoed through her body reminding her of what was missing. It had started when she turned eighteen and only increased in fervor with every passing year.
But only a skilled lover would do. A man who knew his way around a woman’s body, someone who could give the sort of gratification she sought in her dreams.
The image of such a man flitted through her mind. Tall, dark, handsome. And a stranger.
Amira slid back the unmarked industrial door that led to the dance hall and wondered if she would see him again tonight.
For a year it was the same. At exactly 10pm every Thursday, he would arrive at the milonga. And she would know, whether she was dancing with someone else, or sitting at one of the circular tables at the edges of the dance floor, that he was watching. She would feel a delicious shiver at the nape of her neck and know it was him.
The foreplay was driving her wild.
While her university days had been filled with endless hours of dressmaking designs, patterns and prints, her friends had been boozing and bonking to the wee hours. But she had craved more.
Somehow, she knew that hewould be the answer the moment she spotted him in the shadows of the milonga.
“Amira, welcome.”
“Hey, Gus.” She bent down to kiss the portly tanguero on the cheek. A strong, pungent aftershave hit her, as did the cigarette smoke. No matter how much cologne he wore, or how many extra-strong mints he consumed, she could always smell the Marlboro on him. It was both comforting and repelling.
She paid the entrance fee and took off her coat. The lesson had ended and the milonga—the evening of social dancing—was just beginning. A few dancers she knew were warming up or socializing.
Taking her time, Amira found a table and slipped on her tango shoes. She surreptitiously scanned the rectangular room once more. The space was large but empty enough for her to take stock. As she did, an elderly gentleman approached.
“Edward.” Amira smiled, warming when the septuagenarian bowed. Whilst dancing with him was more akin to stilted bouts of walking around the floor, she enjoyed his gentle embrace and lively conversation.
