Her heart thudded in time with the beat. Her short skirt whirled as Jon spun her away from him, and then reversed her spin, drawing her back into his arms before dropping her into a dip. Anjali’s long hair skimmed the floor. Utterly fearless, she threw herself into the salsa trick; Jon would never let her hit the ground. He twisted to the side and let her fall, catching the back of her neck against the back of his ankle. Dimly, Anjali heard the applause of the crowd as Jon kicked up gently, propelling her to her feet. He caught her fingertips and twisted her into a triple spin. The pulse of the music pumped adrenaline and endorphins through her veins, transforming her body into a creature of pure spirit—strong, free, and utterly alive.
The expression in Jon’s eyes—the breathtaking combination of love and awe—both anchored her and lifted her. She was herself—the truth unvarnished—but she was also everything she wanted to be. It was the music; it was the dance. No. It was Jon. He was the world he had opened to her, the security that grounded her, and the love that raised her up.
“I love you,” she mouthed, knowing he could not hear her over the roar of the music.
His lips shaped the words. “I love you.” The tenderness in his eyes was like tinder to wood. It blew her apart and stole her breath as he spun her into his arms and lowered her into a dip. He followed her motion down, curving over her to breathe a kiss on her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, not because she was afraid of falling, but because she wanted that closeness, that connection.
She did not ever want to let him go.
The salsa music faded, but a ballad set to a slower beat came on. No furious fancy footwork, just the intimacy of dancing so close together their bodies brushed with each perfectly matched step. A saxophone wailed in the background, a counterbalance to the melodic crooning of the band’s lead singer. The glare of colored spotlights gyrated over the wooden dance floor, and the body heat of other dancers kept the room comfortably warm. Anjali was content to let her mind drift as her body, trained to respond to and dance with Jon, settled into the comfort of his arms.
“Are you falling asleep on me?” His amused voice sounded in her ear.
She smiled. “Comfy.”
“I love holding you. It feels right.”
It had always felt right, from the first moment he took her into his arms at that first salsa lesson six years ago. Several weeks passed before they officially began dating, but she had been his from that first moment. Was it the way he held her, the way he looked at her, as if he could not believe his luck? Did he know how precious it was to be cherished the way he cherished her, to know that he saw only the best in her?
He shifted his weight, and she chuckled, low in her throat. She knew that movement all too well—his uncomfortable need to shift the hard press of his aroused body against her inner thighs. “Do you want me?” she murmured, her voice a husky whisper.
“You know it, babe.” His voice was rough. He tugged her against him, as if she needed to know the extent of his physical attraction. “Come with me.” He pulled her away from the dance floor, pushing past the crowd of dancers to escape through the front door. The relative coolness of the night was a welcome relief from the stuffiness of the club, but it did not cool the heat pulsing through her body.
His hands pressed against the curve of her buttocks. The firmness of his grip betrayed the urgency of his need. “My hotel is closer than your apartment,” he said.
“No time.” She breathed into his ear as she unlocked her car and pulled open the door of the backseat.
“Damn it, Ange. We’re too old for this.”
“Never too old.” She leaned her weight into him, sending him sprawling on his back against the smooth leather seat. His breaths came hard and fast as she unbuckled his belt and tugged down on his zipper.
“No, not like this,” he gasped. His objection ended on a ragged sigh, his head falling back and baring his throat as she closed her mouth around him. His hands clutched at her shoulders; she could not tell if he was trying to hold her back or push her on. His body tensed as she teased him with lips and tongue.
He grunted; his eyes squeezed shut, fighting against his release.
No, it would never do to leave him aroused and unfulfilled. Anjali gripped his narrow hips, knowing that the sensation of being restrained would set him off. She drew him into her mouth, as deep as she could go, and hummed.
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “Ange!” he croaked. His hips jerked against her mouth as he came hard, spurting into her throat.
A rush of relief flooded through her as she swallowed the familiar salty taste of him. He had come, thank goodness.
He sagged against the leather seat, and his hands stroked her hair as his breathing slowed into its regular pace. “Why did you rush me through it?” he asked, as he did every time. “What about you?”
She shifted around in the backseat of the
