Laura

Life is full of surprises. That's a universal truth. Even knowing that, the fact that Dylan could dance, and dance beautifully and smoothly, came as a huge surprise. Like most Latin dances, the bachata was all about sensuality and teasing. Hips, hips, beautifully grinding into each other, male to female, so close it was practically like making love. Like petting in the open, only gracefully so. Hands all over each other. His on my back, touching, guiding.

The dance was all about flowing like water, rippling. Bending. Elastic. Fluid. My leg between his. His leg between mine, so close to my crotch that it was tantalizing.

My breath caught. My toes tingled. It had been too long since I'd felt anything close to this kind of chemistry with a guy. It was thrilling and terrifying in its intensity at the same time. Dylan's hands were warm as he took mine, the pressure he gave to guide me firm and confident.

The dance could be fast and wickedly hot, or slow and sensual. It hadn't been lost on me that every song the band played this evening was a love song, with a preponderance of them made for slow dancing. Of course they were. How much easier to feel the chemistry, or lack of it, in a potential mate's arms. And why not? I wouldn't expect anything less.

Any good matchmaker should foster an atmosphere ripe for falling in love. Ashley was smart and skilled. She was leading anyone who felt the passion right up to the brink of breaking her cardinal rule—no sex until exclusivity.

Every tiny detail was chosen to aid in the art of romance. The atmosphere was so skillfully set that any common dunce would have had to try to fail. So much so that I hoped the fantasy wouldn't get in the way of reality. At some point, the ball would end and we'd all be real people again, with real faces, in the real world, facing real challenges. But behind the mask and my veiled eyes, I could let go of my inhibitions and reservations and let my heart fly. If it fell, it would be worth the price. I was free to study Dylan without recrimination, to look and drink my fill of his handsome features and the desire that built in his eyes with every dance and every move.

The music, the flowers, the lighting, the food—aphrodisiacs all, every last bite from appetizer to dessert. The menu had practically screamed, I'm an oyster. Eat me and fall in love. Or at the very least lust.

I wouldn't have been surprised to discover Ashley was piping pheromones into the room. Even packed with eager, anxious, exercising people gently glowing, the room smelled deliciously like love—perfume, cologne, and subtle undertones of scents that perfumeries dream of capturing.

For a big man, Dylan was light on his feet, and best of all, as I quickly discovered, he knew how to lead. When a man leads with skill, dancing is easy. When the man's a dud, it's torture. And there were so many ways to be a dud—too arrogant, too cocky and show-offish, too heavy-footed, and, worst of all, doesn't know how to dance or lead, but thinks he does. That's dangerous for his partner.

The bachata can be danced separated or totally tangled in one another. The best, of course, if you're dancing with someone you like, is to be totally intertwined with him. But to start, it's easier to dance side by side or facing each other to get a feel for your partner's style and ability.

Dylan had shed his duster, hung it on the back of his chair at the table, led me to the center of the dance floor, and staked out a prime spot. As the music began, we danced facing each other, doing the basic steps but not touching. It was a contest between us. Basic step, basic step. Time to up the ante.

He was good with his hips. I was better. I also had the advantage—I could see his eyes. I grinned as I remembered my male dance instructor's running commentary: "Ladies, hit him with the hips. Hips, hips, hips, hips."

Have hips. Will use them to my advantage.

I held eye contact with Dylan. Or tried. He couldn't see my eyes. Through the tulle and around the sequin and pearl swirls, I could see him watching my hips. I watched with delight as his breathing became shallower and more rapid and his eyes became wide and dark. I was absolutely certain my eyes were the same as I watched him.

He watched my hips and matched my motion. The corners of his mouth turned up as he lifted his arms high and turned in a circle, propelled by the swing of his hips. Can I just say how hot that move was?

Oh, buddy, I can do that too, and I have more booty. Not that yours isn't a pleasure to watch move.

I matched him, knowing I had to challenge him purely with body language. So you know the basic moves and think you can dance. But can you do this?

I moved in closer, doing the chest pump, inching closer with every pump until my breasts nearly brushed his chest with each beat. He pumped his chest, a hard, muscled peacock, inching toward me. As the song picked up momentum and it became obvious we were of equal skill—when had he learned to dance like this?—Dylan took me in his arms, hands on my hips, moving with my motion as if guiding the movement of my hips, egging me on to greater, more sensuous and complicated moves. Dancing the bachata was a bit like playing lovers in a stage play—to make it convincing, you had to pretend to be in love. You had to move like you couldn't resist your partner. You had to make love to them with your eyes and caress them.

With his hands on the bare skin of my back above where my corset ended, he slid his knee between my legs and undulated into me. I wished I could have seen the upper half of his face beyond his eyes through the slits of his mask. Had he lifted an eyebrow in challenge? Or was his expression a twin of his mask?

There was something incredibly hot about having Dylan's knee between my legs. He gave me a gentle cue with the pressure of his hands on my back that he wanted me to dip. I obliged, leaning back while he held me, so far back my hair brushed the floor. It was an act of trust. Then I was up again, staring into his eyes. He slid my leg over his knee and around his waist, then spun us, finally setting me gently on my feet. We both began the hip moving again. I couldn't be certain what his motives were, but I was definitely being suggestive.

Reading Dylan's moves and cues came almost instinctively to me. I misread him only once after he set me down, and quickly corrected. He nodded. We fell into the rhythm of the music and the passion of the moment.

When I get into a dance, I forget where I am and whom I'm with. Only the music and how my body reacts to it matter. This was the first time in memory that I moved with the music and my partner as fluidly as if he were part of me. Even though I was lost in the dance, I was keenly aware of him. The song, and our dance, ended much too soon. There wasn't any question of whether we'd dance the next one. Neither of us made a move to leave the dance floor. He held his hand out to me. I took it and we grinned at each other.

It's a funny and titillating kind of flirting you have to do when you can't use your eyes to convey your interest. I hadn't thought of the handicap before the ball, but now I found it a pleasant challenge. What might have been a detriment only meant I had to be more physical, more exaggerated, and put myself out there. I squeezed his hand to let him know how much fun I was having. He squeezed back and held tight as the next song started up—another bachata-perfect tune that flew by too quickly.

After another song, it was clear we were in the bachata part of the set list. Of all the different music and dance styles, I was elated Dylan and I were dancing the bachata together. It was the one I knew best, liked most, and it was the sexiest.

Most dancers are lithe and wiry and average height. It was uncommon for a man as tall and big-boned as Dylan to move as athletically and gracefully as he did. It was obvious that my preconceptions about him from school were totally off base and out of line with the man he was now. He could dance. He was lean and athletic, funny, and he knew how to charm. This was the Dylan I'd always hoped lurked beneath the nerdy, chubby façade he'd hidden behind years ago. This was the guy whose personality had charmed me, when he'd been brave enough to show it. This was the Dylan I'd dreamed of.

After dancing half a dozen songs, we were both breathing hard. There was a moment when he looked at me and motioned toward our table. The band began the soft opening strains of a cover of my favorite song by my favorite artist, a song that was only a few years old. My heart stopped. This song, I realized, was the story of us and where we were now. It was as if fate was intervening. There was no way I was leaving the dance floor before this song ended. I hoped that Dylan would grasp the importance of it too. I shook my head and held up one finger—just one more dance. He nodded and opened his arms to me.

This dance, in this moment, was a seduction, a caress, a tease. He put one arm around me and took my hand with the other, looking deep into my masked eyes as we swayed and rippled together sinuously. We looked at each other like lovers. He slid his hands to my back and tipped his forehead to mine as we swayed slowly, bending and waving like trees in a sultry afternoon breeze. He pushed me out and pulled me back, acting like a protective lover as he cupped my head, but didn't quite touch it.

The lyrics pierced my heart—all about true love being bendable and elastic, able to bounce back and come back from any rough start, resilient against any adversity. The man wanted his woman. His heart called out for her.

I slid my knee between Dylan's legs. Intertwined, we spun around, hips moving, one pair of hands clasped. His arm around me, mine around him. He hooked a finger in the back of my corset, sending tingles up and down me. It was an incredibly intimate, possessive gesture, tiny as it was. My heart raced.

If this was a fantasy, I didn't want it to end. It seemed unreal, but I could very well be falling in love. No, I was falling in love. The question was—was I falling in love with something that was real?

The lyrics jumped out at me—I hadn't broken him all those years ago, and he hadn't broken me. We hadn't broken the possibility of us. We could stretch and not break. Go far apart and come back together. Our hearts were strong enough to start fresh. Our past hadn't stretched us too tight.

Suddenly, Dylan released me and tapped his heart to the beat of the lyrics, falling out of the bachata rhythm. Then he fell to the floor and crawled on his belly toward me, reaching for me like a thirsty man in the desert, a cowboy reaching for a mirage.

I stood, staring at him, stunned and startled. Until I realized what he was doing—he was imitating the music video. I shook my head and laughed. This was the funny, spontaneous Dylan I remembered, quiet, but a ham at the same time. He looked both ridiculous and adorably heart-melting as he crawled on his belly across the floor to me, reaching for me.

As he reached my feet, I gave him a hand up and pulled him to me. We broke into modern dance, imitating the moves in the style of the video. Even as avid a fan as I was, I didn't have it memorized, and from the way he put moves together, neither did he. He was just having fun with it. I ran with it, making up moves for fun, playing the part of the lover who couldn't quite decide what she wanted, a girl who didn't know what she wanted growing into a woman who did.

Dylan made silly faces at me to the beat of the music. I tried to keep a straight face, but he persisted, getting sillier and sillier until I cracked up. The lyrics saved me, switching to talking about being torn apart. I pushed him away, like breaking his heart, and danced away from him. He chased after me across the dance floor.

We were drawing attention now. The other dancers cleared part of the floor to give us room. The song was about the struggle to overcome the wild nature of love. The man comes at the woman. She pushes him away. She runs where he can't go. But eventually, she comes back for him and takes him by the hand.

I ran from Dylan, off the dance floor and out the door of the ballroom, to the stunned hush of the crowd. I was panting, trying to get my breath as I counted to ten, wondering whether he would follow. The song ended. The ballroom was silent except for hushed, speculative murmurs. Even from the hallway, I could feel the anticipation and suspense. Would he come after me? Would I go back for him?

When he didn't chase me, I knew what he was waiting for. If he was chained to the past and what he thought I'd thought of him, I had to break those chains and go back for him. It was my call to make. My decision to shatter the impressions of the past. Just like in the music video, I had the power to move forward or run away.

I took a deep breath and reentered the ballroom, dramatically shoving the doors wide open and dancing to the silence to Dylan, hand outstretched to him.

The room erupted with applause. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd.

Dylan stood in the middle of the floor, one hand outstretched, miming as if he was trapped in a prison, trying to claw his way out to me, trying to squeeze through bars too small to let him through. He didn't move. I was going to have to walk the full distance to him. It was brilliant of him, really. Either I wanted him all the way or not at all. And I would make the statement.

I strode to him and stared at him in the prison of my making. I mimed taking a key from my pocket, unlocking my heart and the prison. I took his hand and pressed it to my heart. And then I pulled him through the crowd into the hall.

I was smiling so hard that my face felt stretched thin as he pulled me into his arms. I had tears in my eyes. I'd never expected a simple dance with a guy to be so emotional and powerful.

"Thanks for coming back for me." His voice was deep with emotion. "It would have been damned embarrassing to be stood up after that performance."

"I had to, didn't I?" I slid my arms around his neck. "It was part of the act in the video. I'm surprised you knew it."

"There are many things that would surprise you about me. The video—that's the only reason you came back?"

"Not the only reason." I inched my lips toward his. "Not even the most compelling reason."

"Good." He halved the gap between our lips. "And just so you know, I wouldn't have stood there like a fool much longer. I would have chased after you."

His lips came down on mine, and I lost myself to it. He kissed as well as he danced, maybe better, with just the right moves and just the right pressure. The music had started up again in the ballroom. Strains of it floated out to us. He slid his leg between mine and began swaying his hips and dancing as we kissed. I moved with him.

Finally, he pulled away and whispered in my ear, "We either need to go back or go someplace private." There was a question in his eyes.

"Do you know someplace private? Someplace close by, maybe?" I didn't want to lose the mood.

He nodded. "I have a room. Right here in the building."

I must have looked surprised. I certainly felt surprised.

He laughed. "There are suites on the top floor that you can book for overnight stays or parties. Lazer booked the entire floor for my buddies and me. Considering all the money he spent on this party, the ballroom probably comped them. They have a beautiful view."

"I'm sure they do." I wasn't interested in anything other than a view of him. "I'd love to see it."

He took my hand. "I was hoping you'd say that."