Page 22 of Floored (Frenched 3)
He’d given me the most intense orgasm of my entire life with one hand and a dirty mouth. The more I thought about that episode—Confession: I thought about it A LOT—the more insane it seemed. One minute we were arguing about pulp over a couple of beers, the next minute he had me bent over the kitchen counter, gasping in pain and pleasure, following his every command. It was frightening. It was fascinating. It was phenomenal.
But I couldn’t bring myself to call him.
For one thing, I was too busy giving the studio a makeover. Mia and Coco helped me paint the studio lobby and both of the dance rooms; Lucas bolted the barres to the walls more securely and reconfigured the lobby to add more seating, and Nick brought in a builder friend who helped him repair the leak in the ceiling. To thank them, I spent two weekends painting bedrooms at Nick and Coco’s new house, and filled in as hostess at Lucas’s bar, The Green Hour, when he was short-staffed a few times and Mia wasn’t feeling well. With the physical improvements at the studio underway, I felt much more confident dealing with difficult parents. I felt like they could see I was serious about keeping my promises and running the business better. I also stopped taking their calls on my cell phone. My stress level decreased a ton.
Another reason I didn’t call Charlie was that I didn’t see the point in pursuing something with him when there was no long-term potential. At my house that night, he made it clear he preferred his “relationships” with women to be like the action films he enjoyed—intense, thrilling, and finished in about three hours. I wasn’t necessarily looking for an engagement ring, but casual sex with a playboy wasn’t my thing, either, so I kept my distance.
And so did he.
Unti
l the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when he showed up at my social dance class.
With a date.
I saw her first—a tall, willowy blonde with narrow hips, big breasts, and long legs. She didn’t look familiar, so I walked over to introduce myself, and stumbled over my own feet when I saw who she was with.
“Whoa.” Charlie grabbed my arm so I didn’t go down completely. “And you’re the teacher? I want my twenty bucks back.”
“Charlie. What a surprise.” I recovered, but my nerves still jittered as if I couldn’t get my balance. He was dressed in gray pants and a fitted black button down that showed off his lean muscularity, but it was his hands I couldn’t stop looking at. And his mouth. I kept replaying those few seconds when he’d pulled, turned, kicked, bent me over, and pinned me before I even realized what was happening. I kept hearing that low, calm voice as it told me what to say. I kept feeling those strong fingers slide between my legs.
Confession: I have no idea what dance steps I taught that night. Not a clue.
Here’s what I do remember:
Her name was Krista. “With a K.”
She was a terrible dancer.
Charlie wasn’t lying about his rhythm.
I know this because Krista with a K raised her hand at one point and asked for help. Willing my knees not to wobble, I walked over to them.
“He’s doing it wrong,” she complained, her glossy nude lips in a pout.
“I don’t think so.” Charlie turned her beneath his arm correctly. “I think you’re trying to go the wrong way.”
“Let me watch,” I said, smiling at Krista. She’d been giving me the stink eye all night, probably because when Charlie introduced us, he’d called her his friend, but he referred to me as the sweet little thing who broke his heart when we were kids. A ridiculous lie, which I’d quickly cleared up, but I could tell she viewed me as her competition.
They executed the move again, and sure enough, Krista tried to turn the wrong way, and furthermore, she did it on the wrong beat and didn’t wait for him to lead it.
“OK. Well, first, you have to let him lead you—no turning on your own. Remember, on the actual dance floor, you’d have no idea what was coming. So the woman has to just keep the basic pattern with her feet and follow his lead. If he’s doing it right, you should feel that gentle pressure.”
Charlie burst out laughing. “If I’m doing it right, you’ll feel more than gentle pressure.”
I glared at him. “Hush, you. Try it again, Krista.”
“Let me try it with you,” Charlie said.
“With me?” Pull. Turn. Kick. Bend. Pin. My belly hollowed with a whoosh. “Uh, OK.”
Krista looked less than pleased so I tried to keep my expression neutral and my proximity to his body teacher-student appropriate. It took monumental effort, though, because as soon as we got into a closed position, I could smell him. I hadn’t even realized Charlie had a smell that night in my kitchen, but when he looped an arm around my back and pulled me toward him, the memory of his body taking control of mine hit me like a freight train. It’s a good thing he was a decent dancer, because I did nothing but move where he put me and inhale his scent. It wasn’t even cologne or soap or anything—it was just his skin. God, I wish I could bottle and sell it. I’d call it Autumn Orgasm. I’d make a fortune.
“Well? How did I do?” Charlie looked at me expectantly.
“Um, great. Perfect.” I nearly came. I let go of him and took a step back. “Just relax and let him lead you,” I said to Krista. “You’re doing fine.”
“You going out tonight?” he asked me.
