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Chapter Four

Christina

I grab the first parking spot I find and glide in. As I shut my car off and grab my purse, I check the time. I have twenty minutes before I need to head for the bar to meet my friends for our monthly girls’ night out. I meander through the tunnel between shops that offers an easy pedestrian path from the parking garage to the main drag of the upscale outdoor shopping mall.

Terroir, the wine bar we almost always meet in, is directly across the street, but the two shops on the left of the tunnel are some of my favorite boutiques, and I browse the windows before heading across to claim a high-top table.

As I’m sitting, Maria walks in.

“Hey, you,” I say as I hug her.

The waitress approaches, but behind her Lauren is weaving her way through the high-top tables to reach us so I ask her to give us a minute. The bar has a garden theme for both its indoor and outdoor space. But even with misters, summer is a stretch to sit outside, particularly for those of us in business casual clothes, rather than Maria’s dance apparel, so we’re inside, where it will get noisy as it fills up.

We order the usual three dip trio with vegetables and pita chips, and select a bottle to share. Lauren consults the Google doc that Nicole, the project manager of the group who couldn’t make it tonight, created for us to work our way through the wine menu.

I was the one who picked a wine bar. We all love trying new wines, but I’m a bit obsessive about it. I’m also enough of a wine snob to live in the pool house on the family estate, with Greg in the big house. It’s enough personal space but also enough closeness to my brother, and I have a pool and the big house’s wine cellar at hand with no responsibility for maintenance. It’s perfect.

Ordering done, I lean in. “How’s the dance studio?”

“Still not busy enough to open another day or hire another instructor, but the classes are starting to fill up. I need more privates. Especially at the rate you’re getting.”

Lauren raises her brows. “What is this? Chris pulls a special rate?”

I slant Maria an aggrieved look, but she grins at me, unrepentant. I decide to tease her with a version of the truth. “The rate is based on size.”

They both fall out laughing, although Maria sticks her tongue out at me as she does. The waitress returns with our wine, giving them a minute to catch their breath.

“He’s over six feet and wanted a tall instructor. When I declined, he upped his offer and I couldn’t say no when it would help the studio.”

“How old is he?” Maria asks. “He sounded young on the phone.”

“He is. Younger than me. Mid-twenties, I’d guess.”

“Hmm. Tall, dark and handsome did you say?” Lauren propped her chin on her hand.

“No, actually. Tall, golden-haired, and…,” I stop before I finish my thought of built like a brick shithouse . Heat creeps up my face.

“And handsome!” Lauren claps her hands. “Tell us more!”

I give in to temptation and gossip. “Y’all. He is the most fit of any human ever. It’s crazy. I’m not even sure I could pinch him. I’d bet even his ass is a rock. And holy smoke, what an ass it is.” I fan myself. “And he’s flexible. Like, as flexible as I am.”

Maria leans in, mouth open. “Dayum. I’m going to need to catch up on administrative work at the studio one of these mornings when I’m not working.”

“The most fit? Ever? You who have danced competitively are saying this? And since when is any guy, even a dancer, as flexible as you? What the hell does he do with his time?”

“I have no idea honestly. He schedules lessons during office work hours. And frankly, he must need hours in a gym to keep that body, so who knows when he’d have time for work.”

“Ohh, maybe he’s a construction worker. With a tool belt.” Lauren smacks her lips.

Maria rolls her eyes and smacks her arm lightly. “Girl, you read too many romance books.”

“There’s no such thing. Please—can you ask him if he has a tool belt?”

Maria throws out, “He could have family money like you. And you two can roam the world together having dirty pretzel sex everywhere.”

That throws a bucket of cold water on my libido. “We know that’s not happening.”

Lauren reaches over to squeeze my hand before sipping her wine again. She leans in so we aren’t overheard, but the bar has become busy enough that’s unlikely. “I know you go for older men who are less likely to want children, but a guy in his mid-twenties will be all about casual. If he’s that hot, it’s worth a fling. The doctor and therapist both told you that after surgery, the pain during sex should be resolved, and the birth control should keep the endometriosis under control.”

I’d quit dance when pain in my lower abdomen had sent me to a doctor who found extensive endometriosis that required surgery. Since then, medication has thus far kept it at bay. I didn’t mind giving up dance at that point, as it had taken its toll and I wanted to attend university while I was still close to the other students’ ages.

“Sex wasn’t all that interesting before the endometriosis interfered.”

My friends have all the details of my life. Maria says, “You had two partners when you and they were teens. No one knew what they were doing. And some of that was the endo. It’d be different now, especially with someone you’re this attracted to.”

“I just haven’t wanted to try, given the all pain and no gain. And the longer I go, the more I worry fear will stop me from becoming aroused because I’ll get in my head.”

“And as I tell you every time you say that, you’ll never know if you don’t try,” Maria admonishes me with a smile.

The other part of my diagnosis is that I’ll probably never be able to have children. To stop taking birth control would be a huge risk given how extensive the tissue spread was. I went to therapy about that, as I’d hoped for a family one day, but I’m adjusting. That’s why I target older men who have children or made the decision against having them. I’ve also bowed out of every relationship the minute they start pressing to add physical intimacy, as I haven’t been ready to have a conversation about my condition.

For now, I answer Lauren with other advice from the doctors she is ignoring. “They also said it would be best to have sex in a committed, trusting relationship, so I could share my concerns and be certain my partner would be supportive. That doesn’t lend itself to crazy monkey sex with a client of the studio, which is also against the rules.”

“Oh, please. That’s standard industry practice. Special dispensation could be made once I determine how attractive he is.” Maria wiggles her brows.

“Seriously, though,” Lauren says, “maybe you take the approach that casual sex can be more relaxing because less is riding on it. Then you’re less likely to tense up, but if you do, it won’t matter because you’re not planning on bringing him home to meet the family…?”

“Yeah,” Maria chimes in. “If you can get yourself to relax it could be a breakthrough. You’re already attracted to him. Build on that. Don’t plan anything, but let it happen if there’s an opportunity.” She winks and adds, “Then you’ll have less time to stress and talk yourself out of it.”

I nod. It’s excellent advice, if I can keep it in front of my fears.

* * * *

As Cam is more advanced than I’d expected of a young man walking into the studio, I’ve introduced faster songs and bolder moves than I normally would this early into private lessons. It also helps that he’s taller, broader, and stronger than any past partners.

With that in mind, after our warmup today I choose Harder Better Faster Stronger by Daft Punk for us, and snicker at Maria and Lauren’s imagined reaction to that pick.

As we swing, I admire his form. It looks so natural. He’s well-trained, but beyond that, even the best-trained amateurs drop their elbows, their shoulder muscles tiring at the unnatural activity. The one thing Cam seems to struggle with is straightening his leg fully. He says it’s an old habit. Experience has taught me that form is harder and more visible in a female dancer. A man can hide that micro knee bend under pants.

Wondering whether it’s worth being hyper-vigilant to correct, I ask him, “Have you considered competitive ballroom dancing?”

Even though my competition days are done, jealousy claws at me as I conjure an image of him in a form-fitting suit brushing hips with a dainty woman in a flowy dress, twirling around a competition floor.

He shrugs. “Maybe someday, but not right now.”

Relief washes over me. Stupid brain. I have no right to be jealous or relieved.

“Do you want me to correct little things about your form, or are you more interested in dancing for fun?”

He purses those lush lips as he tilts his head in thought.

Heat arrows down to my belly and beyond. This man is hot without even trying.

Studio rules, I remind myself.

I consider asking him what he does, but I’m not quite brave enough. I don’t want to explain why I’m available, that my days are flexible. Most days, managing my family’s varied investments only takes part of my day. The remaining hours are divided between setting up my dream project and staying in dance instructor condition.

That’ll change in the fall, as my brother decided to build a championship NHL team here in Austin and has pulled out all the stops. I spent a bunch of time helping him get backers, and he’s asked me to help in the first part of each season. But after that, my own passion project will have to take precedence. Dance had been an outlet growing up, but I learned early on that it was an expensive pursuit. Lessons cost a lot of money, never mind travel and costumes if they choose to pursue it competitively. Many friends dropped out because of that. Everyone focuses on sports subsidies, with no attention on dance lessons for students who couldn’t afford them. That’s where my nonprofit after-school program would come in. But my ideas aren’t formed enough yet to share with a near-stranger.

So instead of talking, I abandon myself to the dance.

The next morning, Cam tells me about his latest discoveries of Austin and his neighborhood as we stretch, something that has become a routine.

Finally, I give in to curiosity. “What prompted your move to Austin?”

We flow from warrior two to warrior one then down to a high lunge.

“A new job that starts in a few weeks. That’s why my schedule will change in September.”

Ah. That explains how he has so much free time as well as why he’s new in town.

“Where are you from?”

“Outside of Chicago.”

I snicker. “And you moved to Texas in the summer? I bet that was a shock to your system.”

He laughs and nods as we rise to switch directions and repeat our flow on the other side.

I press a little further. “Where?”

“A few different places. Most recently, Peoria.”

Given my family’s love of hockey, my thoughts jump to the AHL team there, but I shouldn’t assume every Northerner is a hockey fiend. His vagueness signals that he doesn’t want to discuss it further, so I let it go.

Changing the subject, I say, “I’ve added in some kicks for flare. Things that I’d normally do but can be incorporated into the lead dancer’s routine as well.”

“Sounds good. Let’s spend an extra few minutes at the barre then. Any chance we can do some lifts?” He has asked that every lesson after the first few.

I’m selfishly resisting because his hands on more parts of my body might be more tempting than I dare until I either get my thoughts straight or my libido under control. But that isn’t fair to a client, and I need to determine what lifts might make sense. He hasn’t done any with other partners. He claimed it was no fun when he could tuck them under an arm like a football. There was also the risk he’d toss them too hard and break them.

“I’ll bring an idea or two tomorrow.”

“Really?” His wide grin and eager tone drag a reluctant answering smile from me.

“Look up the fish lift on YouTube and I’ll find a spot to incorporate it.” Although lifts are not part of competition ballroom, every dancer plays around with them when they have time and a partner they trust. The fish is a beginner level lift and one of the few that don’t put my head near his crotch, his hands near mine, or anything else that might cause me to fall from distraction.

I hardly sleep that night, worried about how I’ll react to his hands on me. Come on, Chris, you’re supposed to be a professional. There is nothing professional about my body’s reaction to him, though. Every single lesson, I’ve had to wear pantyliners so my bodysuit won’t show a wet spot from my reaction to him. Thank goodness for wrap skirts which act as extra insurance.

In the years since my surgery, I haven’t missed sex. But getting to see and touch Cam’s naked body might be worth the potential physical pain. Plus, my friends are right. The doctor had said that was far less likely after surgery, especially if my partner and I prepared my body. It’s prepared, all right. Holy smoke. He might be the perfect test subject.

The next day, Cam is bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid on Christmas morning.

The damn man is even cuter when he’s excited. Perhaps he’d bounce like that if I invited him back to my place. “Full warm up. Let’s go.”

After we’re warm, especially his upper body and my inner leg muscles, I talk him through the swing routine we’ve been practicing, to the spot which makes sense to incorporate the lift.

He’s walking through it with me, his form still strong despite the casual pace and lack of music.

He spins me away to his right, and I talk him through the new steps as I take two circling steps back in still holding his hand so it wraps around my waist with me facing away from him.

I kick my left leg out to the side in front of him and release his hand to wrap my left arm around his neck and shoulders. “Press your hand to my abdomen, centered on my belly button. Your other hand comes to my lifted leg midway up the thigh.”

In this lift, I help raise myself using my shoulders and arm pressing down on Cam’s shoulders. My leg muscles are tightened so I can hold its extension and angle to my body and am not yanked into a super split when he lifts me.

He’s already flattened his palm on my stomach where I’d conveniently positioned our hands as I spun, and I worry I’ll need burn treatment after this lesson from the sear. His other hand slithers around my thigh just as I’m tightening my core and leg muscles to hold my position.

My swallow is audible because my throat has gone tight. I should have put background music on. His hands are so huge that they brush the edges of my sex. His pinky finger on my belly reaches my small patch of trimmed pubic hair, and the thumb of his hand on my leg is brushing the leg seam of my leotard. Molten liquid rolls through me and my stomach muscles loosen. That pantyliner may not be enough to counter the deliciousness that is Cam.

He tightens his grip and lifts me. I bend the knee of the leg he’s not holding to get into the pose. I didn’t even need to press my left arm on his shoulders to help. It’s just lying there, his muscles bunching and rolling under me.

Without prompting, he spins, and I neglect to spot. The room whirls around me. When he lowers me, I need a moment before I can unwind my arm from his neck. I choose not to spin back out to show him where we’d continue the dance steps. “Well done.”

“Seems a bit too easy. Is that really the whole lift? What about on those competition shows?”

“We have to start somewhere. I have no desire to fall, so we’ll build up to more complex moves, just as you did learning the steps.”

“I’d never drop you, Christina.” His voice rumbles with offense.

“Says every dancer ever,” I reply lightly and step back into place. “Let’s do it twice more on my count and then we’ll put it to music.”

I tell myself I’m mentally prepared for his hands on my body, pointing at my swollen pussy from two directions. I’m not. I gasp again and almost stutter on the count. I tighten my arm muscles to press, but again I’m up before I can use them.

At the end of the hour, he’s unable to stop grinning. “This was so fun. Please, let’s learn another one later this week?”

“We’ll see.”

“Hey, can I buy you coffee or lunch? I’d love to see a local’s favorite spot.”

I shake my head.

“Come on. I don’t usually put my hands on a woman without at least buying her a drink.” He winks.

Whew, his smile is lethal. My body is thrumming with need, and I swear I might be panting like I’m outside in the Texas heat. My brain has just enough blood flow to remind me that I’m into my third decade of life and this man-boy is too young for me.

“Sorry, against studio policy.” I shrug. “I can text you a few suggestions.”

“Dang. Okay. Any other lifts I should YouTube?”

I shake my head. I’d been considering the assisted cartwheel, but my head goes directly in front of his groin as he turns me in the cartwheel with his arms, my arms on him rather than the floor. I have no idea how I’ll get through that without either embarrassing myself or dragging him into a horizontal tango, or both.