Page 1 of Take the Lead

W hen you spend several hours pressed up against the muscular torso of a drop-dead gorgeous professional dancer, I promise you it will cross your mind how it might feel if there weren’t two layers of clothing separating your bodies.

And that’s exactly what’s going through my mind now, a couple of hours into my first training session with Merle Picard, the ridiculously attractive French dancer from the Fire on the Dance Floor team, as he walks me through our first routine together.

I imagine running my hands over his rock-hard abs, trailing my fingers across his smooth, tanned skin and working my way down …

It sets off a light tingling sensation between my legs and an involuntary sigh escapes from my lips.

‘ ?a va ?’ Merle asks.

‘Oh yes, sorry, all good.’ I snap back to attention. ‘I was just … never mind. You were saying?’

He goes back to explaining what his various hand signals mean – a double shoulder tap for a body roll, a lowered hand to prep for a turn – but despite my best efforts to stay focused, I slip back to picturing us getting more intimately acquainted.

This time when he asks if everything is okay, I reply, ‘Oh, oui ,’ with a shy smile.

‘How about now?’ he asks, taking both my hands and pressing them firmly against his chest.

I glance up and see the intense look in his dark brown eyes.

‘Um, better.’

He takes my hands and moves them to his hips, curling my fingers round onto his taut buttocks.

‘And now?’

‘Very good.’

He puts one of his hands over mine and slides it round to the front so I can feel him getting hard through his gym tights.

‘And now?’

My cheeks flush as my brain scrambles to formulate a response that won’t sound corny, but he saves me by planting a kiss firmly on my lips, his tongue pushing into my mouth to find mine …

‘Kate, are you still with me?’ the real Merle asks. ‘I know it’s a lot to take in on your first day. We can go a little more slowly if you’d like.’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ I babble, blushing. ‘I’ve got this, I promise.’

‘Why don’t we take a few minutes to regroup? Grab yourself some water, use the bathroom if you need to, nip out and get some fresh air. Let’s get back to it in ten, fifteen minutes. Okay?’

‘Good plan,’ I agree.

A splash of cold water might help me focus.

In five days’ time we’re going to be dancing in front of a live studio audience, as well as however many millions of people are watching on the telly, so I’ve got to pull myself together and start getting to grips with our routine.

I’m here to learn, not to lust after my instructor.

Even so, I can’t help hoping he’s into redheads.

‘All set?’ Merle asks when I head back into the studio. And I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak. I just can’t get over how achingly handsome he is.

He walks towards me and places his hands on my shoulders, giving them a squeeze.

‘Just try to relax,’ he says. ‘To be a good dancer, you need to release all this tension you’re carrying up here.’

But it’s hard to relax when his fingers feel so warm and inviting against my skin.

I fight the urge to close my eyes, tip my head back and sigh with pleasure.

He’s just trying to help me become a better dancer , I remind myself.

But what I really want to do is tell him I know the perfect way for him to relieve any tension.

‘Let’s try some breathing exercises,’ he suggests, stepping back and turning to face the mirror. It’s not exactly what I had in mind.

‘Take a deep breath in and raise your arms up above your head, like this,’ he says, showing me the move, then watching me to make sure I’m following his direction. ‘Then exhale as you bring them back down in front of you, like this. And again …’

I can’t stop looking at his sculpted biceps as he repeats the exercise, and I notice he doesn’t take his eyes off me, either.

And it feels like something changes between us in that moment, because afterwards he reaches for my shoulders again, to see if I’ve loosened up, and this time I’m certain his hands linger for longer than is necessary.

But just as I’m convincing myself this is not just wishful thinking on my part, he steps away again.

‘That’s much better, Kate. See how your shoulders are much softer now?’

‘I do,’ I agree, even though they don’t feel any different to me.

‘Great, then you’re all set. And now, let’s dance.’

It quickly becomes apparent that Merle is something of a perfectionist. There’s barely time for any more chat as he walks me through the first steps of our routine – he’s too focused on showing me exactly how he wants us to look and making sure I really understand what we’re trying to achieve.

I hadn’t realised he’d be so competitive, but I get the impression he really wants to win the show.

He goes into minute detail about the timing and the musicality and how this hand should be here and this foot there.

It turns out there’s even an optimum way for me to flick my hair – who knew?

But I certainly know about it now. We go over and over it, because Merle wants our performance to be flawless.

‘Try to give it more swoosh ,’ he instructs, as I roll my head stiffly and my ponytail flies clunkily over my shoulder.

‘It should be sexy, seductive,’ he purrs.

When I still haven’t got it after the twentieth attempt, he suggests we give my neck a break and starts showing me some of the footwork instead, reminding me continually to lift my chin up, hold my back straight and keep my steps nice and small.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to take it all in when I’m having to concentrate so hard on keeping my eyes from drifting to his bum cheeks, which are impossibly pert in his clingy gym tights.

I’ve never seen a body like his before – not in the flesh, at any rate.

It’s like his torso has been carved out of rock.

I knew he was going to be attractive before we met for the first time at the studio this morning because I googled him when I found out who l was going to be dancing with.

There were only a handful of news stories about him online, detailing the various bachata championships he’s won, but there were photos of him holding his trophies and he looked gorgeous in every single one of them.

And yet somehow I still failed to anticipate how infatuated I’d become with him – and how quickly.

A few short hours ago I was feeling sick with nerves just at the thought of training with him.

My only dance experience is the three weeks of pre-show classes I took with the other contestants ahead of my appearance on Fire on the Dance Floor , and I was convinced I was going to make a total fool of myself in front of him.

But now all I can think about is how fit he is and how much I’d like to have sex with him.

Like a teenage crush, with an X-rated certificate.

I’d like to be able to say I impress him with my progress throughout the afternoon, but I’m not sure my wild hip-swinging and arm-flailing could be classified as dancing at this stage.

I suppose by the end of the week I might look less like I’m trying to shake out a spider that’s fallen down my T-shirt, but I’m definitely not there when Merle announces it’s time for us to call it quits for the day.

‘We don’t want to overdo it,’ he says. ‘This is just the beginning of a long journey.’

I nod enthusiastically, because I don’t want to look defeatist. But based on today’s efforts, it’s going to take some kind of miracle to get me through the first live show, never mind all the way to the final.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ he asks. ‘No aches and pains? Anywhere feeling a bit tight?’

I do a mental assessment of my body parts. It’s so tempting to tell him I’ve seized up all over and that the only possible cure would be a top-to-toe massage. But of course, I don’t. ‘I think I’m good for now. I guess I’ll find out for real in the morning.’

‘Make sure you have a hot bath tonight,’ he advises. ‘It will help, to a degree. That’s what I’ll be doing when I get home.’

I blush at the thought of him naked in the tub.

I find myself dawdling as I change out of my dance shoes, wanting to prolong my time with him.

When I glance up for one last surreptitious look at that glorious body of his, his bag is already flung over one shoulder, ready to go – and he’s watching me fiddling with my laces.

My heart flips, knowing I’ve been caught in the act, and I hastily scramble to my feet.

‘So, er, same time tomorrow?’ I stammer.

‘Of course.’ He smiles and leans towards me to kiss me goodbye – one cheek then the other, in the way the French do.

Only it doesn’t quite work out that way.

I’ve never known whether you’re supposed to go left then right, or right then left, and somewhere in the middle I accidentally brush my lips against his.

We both freeze and for a second we just stand there, not looking each other in the eye.

The moment seems to drag on forever, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Then his bag slides off his shoulder and crashes to the floor, his mouth finds its way back on mine, and as we kiss I squeeze my eyes shut and wonder if I’ve entered a parallel universe where all my fantasies turn into reality.

I know I’ve been thinking about this for most of the day and there have been one or two times when it’s felt like we’ve been sharing a moment, but I did not, for one instant, expect the day to end like this.

He raises a hand to my cheek as his tongue tangles with mine, and I can’t help reaching round to touch his buttocks. So solid . How can buttocks be that solid? He responds by kissing me harder and I feel him stirring in his gym tights. Has this been on his mind all day, as well, then?

I don’t know how long it lasts – not as long as I’d like it to – before we eventually break away.

We look at each other again and I hold my breath, not really sure what to do.

But then he smiles again and says he’s really pleased with how things have gone today. Dancing aside, I couldn’t agree more.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Kate,’ he says as he turns and heads for the door.

I stare after him, catching my breath, not quite believing what we just did. But suddenly I can’t wait for our next training session.