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Zane opened his arms, and she stepped forward, accepting his lead. He was an exceptional dancer, a man in command of his body. He used the area around him not to showcase flashy moves, but to change direction, playing with technique, time and space. Because of it, her own dancing had improved. Alé and Tilda had even commented on it at her weekly lesson.
Zane’s broad, solid body pressed against her breasts, promising another breathless dance. A vals. Romantic, grand, the epitome of elegance. Yet the conversation he had initiated was the exact opposite. She had never spoken about what turned her on. Never shared that with anyone.
For so long she was embarrassed by her sexuality. Sure that she was wanton for dreaming of sex, dirty for seeking out erotica. That sense of shame didn’t exist when she was with him. It was liberating.
Whilst talking during dancing was generally frowned upon, the dialogue between them was murmured, low and for their ears only.
“Do you dream of this, I wonder?”
“Of tango?”
“Being held. Touched. Caressed.” He slid a foot in between her own, shifting her axis, forcing her to slide her leg up and over his as they changed direction. His dark eyes captivated her, and she circled around him, slowly, never breaking contact.
“I dream of a lot of things.”
“Come, Amira. Now’s not the time to be shy. Tell me.”
What dare she tell him? What would she reveal?
“What about sex?”
The thrill of his words rippled along her skin, calling for a response. Her breathing faltered, but her back remained upright, her body engaged.
“Doesn’t everyone dream about it?” She didn’t understand her sudden reticence. She craved this. On every level.
“I find dreaming about it second to the act of doing.” The rumble of his voice next to her ear shook her resolve. He enticed her, teasing a part of her she believed to be taboo for so long.
“Yes…dreams are like foreplay; they only make me more aroused.”
His hand tightened around her own. “What arouses you? Specifically?”
“Dancing. The weight of a man’s chest against my breasts. The smell of his sweat and cologne. The pressure of his hand around my waist.”
“Like this?” His voice was low.
“Yes.”
His breathing had changed. It was imperceptible to those couples swirling around them, but not so to her. She wanted to excite him, to rip off the layers between them until he was naked and exposed.
What made him angry? Jealous? Stimulated?
Every interaction they shared, she learned a little bit more. Despite their differences, they both understood what the other had to offer.
When the dance ended, he held her close. His heart raced against her chest, their breathing labored.
“Amira.”
She could dance a thousand dances with a thousand men and never feel a whisper of what she shared with Zane. He spoke her name like a man tortured. She wanted to hear it again. Knew she would hear it when she awoke, wet and unfulfilled after another night alone.
But she didn’t want to go home tonight. There was no color, no life in those traditional walls.
Reluctantly, they broke apart. After guiding her back to her table, Zane returned to his at the front of the room. She watched him DJ, talking to a steady stream of dancers but always returning his focus to the playlist. He worked intensely.
She couldn’t recall who she had partnered with that evening, or how many times she was on the floor. Her mind, her body was with Zane. When she danced, he watched. Silent. Still. But with a careful consideration, the truth of which remained hidden.
That night, he altered their routine. Foolishly, Amira waited until the last tanda, hopeful he would ask her to dance again, only to find herself disappointed.
His restraint was confusing. Maddening. Her emotions ranged from shame to annoyance. Beneath it all was a stark realization that she was powerless. Traditional tango etiquette meant she would have to wait for him to ask her to dance. She had no control over the situation. Over him. She was not his lover, his girlfriend, not even a dear friend.
