Sophie returns to the table with a coy grin but doesn’t take her seat. Instead, she holds out her hand, challenging me with her caramel eyes. “Supongo que sabes rumba, Señor Ramirez?” I assume you know how to rumba, Mr. Ramirez?
I inwardly cringe at the use of my false name, especially after the very personal and very true emotional bomb I just dropped. But I sense what she’s doing, and I’m grateful for her insight. She knew the memory had been too much for me to share. Could feel my overwhelming sadness and didn’t push me further. Instead, she’s giving me an out. A way of not talking about it and pushing the reset button.
I take her hand and rise.
But not before plucking one of the red roses from the vase on the table.
She twirls slowly, once, before allowing me to take her in my arms and assume the close embrace position of the dance. The red rose is trapped between our connected hands. Our feet are practically locked together as we glide over the wooden floor. Not smoothly like a waltz, not with purpose like a samba or salsa. But a sensual sway against each other, our bodies moving fluidly to the quick-quick-slow tempo of the rumba rhythm.
Her hips swerve slowly.
Her hands caress sensuously.
Her eyes glaze carnally.
Then she goes into a dip and wraps her leg around my waist, the slit in her dress rising dangerously high. That’s when I feel her heat…rubbing directly against my hardening dick.
“You wearing panties, Sophie?”
Her eyes droop. “Barely.”
I groan. “I feel you. You’re so hot, baby.”
Her brow furrows as she bites her lip. “And you’re hard.” I thrust my hips on her last whispered word, making her gasp. “Ay, so hard.”
“You’re wet for me, aren’t you?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
That wanton comment spikes my blood. Sophie is an irresistibly sexual being. Everything she does reminds a man of what she would feel like wrapped around him. I can’t resist her when she’s spewing attitude and sass in my face, spitting Spanish curses with all that Latina fire. But this sexually bold side of her? The side that’s pliant and opening like a spring blossom in my arms?
I will never want anything more desperately than this woman.
“I think this dress was specifically made for you to torture me with.”
“You chose it.”
And thank God for that. “I must be a masochist. You’re exquisite in it, but I’ve never hated a dress so much in my fucking life.”
I clamp my hand around her waist tighter at the sound of her light chuckle. This heavenly creature in my arms fills me with emotions that are more hedonistic in nature than angelic. The power of her tempting flesh is consuming me to the point of debauchery on a primal, animalistic level. The need to own every part of her, body and soul, is poisoning me down to my core. She’s corrupting my very being.
If anything, you’re corrupting her.