I stood looking in the hotels full-length mirror, inspecting my dress for the evening’s outing. It was a tight, deep pink bodycon that hugged my curves and made me feel sexy. What’s more? I had elected to forgo panties for the evening. There was a certain element of illicitness to it. I smiled at myself, thinking about the press of bodies in the natural rhythms of the bachata. I had made this decision for one reason: to give Armando a farewell he’d remember before he left for his new job. I imagined a multitude of progressive things we might do, there at the club and then again at the hotel, afterwards. It would be a night for me to remember, as well. And how little I knew just how true that was…for unexpected reasons.
Club events always started late and Armando always arrived later. This gave me time to enjoy the night in other ways. I love to dance. I love the mystery of my partner, the gauging of skill, the game of following when I discovered a strong lead. The best were those who knew how to communicate with their bodies. I feel his step so I know my step. I feel his hips, so I know the direction my partner wants me to move. He doesn’t throw me around. He creates a connection through the give and take of closeness and distance.
I danced and some were good, others not so much. But it was fun, nonetheless.
Armando arrived and we observed our rules of discretion. Only a few dances with him and he kept rigidly formal, the bastard. I suppose part of me wanted that thrill of tempting fate, the unexpected initiative he had shown that first night we kissed. As said, Armando was a gentleman, however, and respected our agreement to a fault. So we danced once or twice and I bided my time to eventually show him my surprise.
And then something threw me so wonderfully, perfectly off-guard. And his name was Rafael.
I was walking from the dance floor intent on a little break when I hear the silky, sultry introduction of Careless Whisper set to a bachata beat. Oh hell yeah. So I walked to the nearest table of guys and announced that one of them was going to dance with me because I loved that song.
A guy stands. I’d seen him at the club. A regular but we never really talked. He just smiles “as he takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor” (couldn’t resist). The whole thing was like that too, a sort of physical echo to the sensual moments of the song…except this guy had rhythm. And he knew how to lead.
Our bodies were close. I could feel his warmth and smell his cologne, a sweeter scent than the earthy mix Armando wore. My hand was on his neck, the other encased in his which he kept close to his chest, a unique hold in partnering and not something I minded at all. And then in the breakdowns, he gripped my waist and compelled my hips in gentle, beckoning rolls of the dance. There was a particular movement that had his leg in between my own. I could feel my bare pussy rubbing against his thigh through the material. And I was instantly wet.
If love could be made on the dance floor, Rafael and I did for as long as the song lasted. And then it was over. Rafael smiled a shy, soft smile and walked me back to my table. my head spinning, my heart thudding, my body aching for more. Poor Armando suddenly had the glimmer of competition. Because at that moment, all I wanted, all I needed, was release from the sexual energy that had just been built.
The night wore on. An unfamiliar kizomba tune started and many of the couples left the floor, leaving only a few. There were a bunch of guys that asked me to dance but I didn’t know enough of the steps to feel comfortable. The next song started and I had thought I recognized it as a bachata dance. Rafael approached, offering his hand for the dance. Our last song still fresh in my mind, I had no problem accepting.
When we stepped onto the floor, Rafael started the basic kizomba step and I froze.
“I don’t know this dance.”
“Just follow.”
Kizomba is a more sensual dance with a lot of body contact. Chests touching, legs rubbing. Hips rolling together. He led me effortlessly through it all. I could feel his breath on my neck. With a slight turn of my head, I caught a faint smile on his lips. I smiled as well. Our sexual tension was palpable. There was a moment I happened to look over and see Armando watching intently. Was he jealous? I couldn’t read him but found this new element to our relationship interesting.
The dance ended. Rafael and I parted and as I walked back to my place at the table, a new goal had surfaced. I needed to get into Rafael’s pants. Though the man had barely ever said three words to me, the connection we shared left me wanting more. I needed to be touched. Out came my cell. I tapped over to Armando’s name.
“Meet me where we first kissed. I have a surprise for you.”
Find out what happens….here.
Catch up on Armando’s story here.