“I love you.” He trails his fingers across my cheek and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Love you, too.”
He grips my legs between the spread of his and looks me in the eye. “How far did he go?”
I cringe, curling in on myself.
“Danni.” He touches my chin, lifting it. “As long as you’re honest with me, I’ll never resent you for being with him.”
Honesty is good. I nod to myself, gathering courage and searching for the right words.
“We—” My voice creaks, and I try again. “We didn’t go any farther than you and I went yesterday.”
I can tell he’s trying to keep a composed expression, but the skin around his eyes is so tight he looks like he’s seconds from exploding.
“Did you come?” He works his jaw and stills it.
I turn my face away as tears sneak up.
“That was answer enough.” There’s no judgment in his tone as he circles his arms around me, pulling my chest to this. “Did it happen in the Range Rover?”
“The bathroom at Walmart,” I whisper.
He growls deep in his chest. “Classy.”
“You’d rather I fool around in your car and disrespect you?”
“No.” His hand absently strokes my back. “Did he come?”
My shoulders fall forward, and my heart hammers in my chest. “I know you prefer to hear these details from me instead of him, and I’m trying to be open about it. But it makes me feel cheap, Cole. Like the intimacy I share with him doesn’t mean anything.”
“If it didn’t mean anything, we wouldn’t be here.” His caresses my back, affectionately, compassionately. “Trace can tell me the rest.”
“No, I can do this. I just need—”
The back door opens, and Trace steps in, pocketing his phone. His gaze homes in on me, then Cole. Lips resting in a scowl, he strides toward us.
“You told her the rules.” He glares at Cole, lowering onto the stool beside us.
“She wouldn’t leave it alone.” Cole pulls me closer in the V of his legs and says under his breath, “Pain in the ass.”
“I don’t like to be kept in the dark.” I pinch his bicep, where it bulges in the short-sleeve of his shirt.
“Did he make you tell him what we did together?” Trace watches me closely.
“Yeah.” My face heats. “We were just discussing it.”
“I haven’t heard everything.” Cole rubs his thumb against my hipbone. “It makes her uncomfortable.”
“I’ll finish the conversation.” Trace lifts his eyes to me. “You can go—”
“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.” I cross my arms.
“You didn’t sign up for this.” Trace slants toward me, expression grave. “We put you in a terrible position. You didn’t choose to love both of us. But you stuck it out, tried to make it right. You didn’t ask to be lied to, deceived, drugged, kidnapped, and wrenched back and forth. But you’re still here, stronger and feistier than ever.” He shifts back and rests a finger beneath his chin. “We know you’re not made of glass.”
“There’s titanium in your veins,” Cole murmurs, staring at my lips.
Says the man with arms of steel. I let my hand fall down the curve of his bicep and rest back against the island.
“My point is,” Trace says, “Cole and I created this mess, and I refuse to distress you any more than we already have.” He thrusts his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Go dance, Danni. It’s been too damn long.”
He’s right. Five weeks ago, I thought I lost the most important dance of my life. My first dance. The music died inside me, because a broken heart has no rhythm. But it’s beating again. I have them back for however long it lasts, and I want to dance for that. I want to dance the way I used to dance for them.
I move to leave then feel compelled to linger a moment longer. Sliding a hand against the back of Cole’s head, I reach for Trace and clasp his nape. With a physical connection to both of them, I touch my lips to Cole’s forehead and repeat the kiss with Trace.
I’m reluctant to let go. I just want to hold them, keep them close, for always. But that’s not how this ends, and I need to get that through my thick head.
Dropping my hands, I step back, warming beneath the heat of Cole’s brown eyes and shivering in the depths of Trace’s arctic blues. The skip of my pulse propels my feet, and I make my way through the living room and up the sloping stairs. When I turn the corner in the hall, I stop and hold my breath.
A long silence. Then Trace’s wooden voice. “I came on her, not in her. No part of her touched my cock…”
I tiptoe away, hating how clinical and unfeeling his words sound. But I get it. He isn’t trying to evoke arousal. He wants to make sure Cole doesn’t cross any of the boundaries he’s very clearly spelling out.
In the dance studio, I slip into the dressing room and change into spandex shorts and a halter top. After a thorough stretch routine, I move to the stereo and spend an eternity scrolling through the endless list of songs. Too happy. Too slow. Not enough attitude. Wrong mood. Then a song I’ve never danced to rolls by, and I pause on it.
Back to Black by Amy Winehouse. Beyoncé covered this song, but that’s not why it resonates with me. It’s about a twisted love triangle, somewhat downtrodden, but full of grit and spirit. I push play and pace to the center of the room.
The piano riff kicks off with an arrangement of drums, tambourine, and loads of reverb. As the nasally vocals echo in the room, the melody sifts through my ears and finds its way directly to the heart of me.
My spine elongates. My core tightens. My blood hums.
And I begin to dance.
Aside from eating, sleeping, and showering, I haven’t stopped dancing for four days. My muscles are brutally sore. Blisters cover the soles of my feet, and I’m pretty sure I pulled a hamstring. But my God, I found my groove again.
I haven’t even thought about choreography or footwork. I don’t have to create belly dance routines for a job or practice for an upcoming performance. I’m simply dancing for the sake of moving to music I love.
I feel liberated. Meditative. Entranced.
It’s like driving a car to a destination I’ve gone to a thousand times. I don’t have to think about where to turn or when to shift, because I know how to get there and what to do. My subconscious takes over, freeing up my conscious mind to entertain things, such as contemplating the curves of Trace’s scowl, anticipating the next appearance of Cole’s dimples, and deciding which mouth I want to lick more.
As I dance deep in thought, there are no distractions. No responsibilities. Just the music and the movements and this fluid hypnotic state where I burrow in, dig deeper, down to my foundation, to the very essence of me. And that’s where I look for him. The one. The choice. The marrow of my soul.
Sometimes, I think I see him.
I think I know.
But he’s shrouded by doubts and denials and…fear, because holy fuck, I’m scared. I torture myself by imagining the abhorrent moment when I rip out part of my heart and hand it back to the man who gave it to me.
So I keep dancing, changing up the songs and styles to fit my moods. Today, it’s hip-hop. Laid back and playful, sexy and soulful, the electronic beats make it impossible to sit still.
As Wait by Ying Yang Twins streams through the speakers, I face the wall of windows, my cheeks warm from exertion and the glow of the midday sun.
Boom-ba-snap-boom. Boom. Snap. I jerk my hips. Boom-ba-snap-boom. Boom. Snap. My body writhes, punctuating the kick drum with sharp thrusts.
I feel the pattern, the accent of sound, the pulsing vibes. The energy owns me as I plant my feet wide and shake it for all I’m worth. My hands slide over my body. My shoulders roll, and my hair swings around me. I pop my hips and bend my knees, taking it down, low to the floor. My abs undulate. My ass flexes. And I pause.
I sense him before I spot his reflection in the window.
Rising to my full height, I turn around.
“Don’t stop.” Cole prowls toward me, barefoot, shirtless, the fly of his jeans left unbuttoned, and his hair a damp, sexy mess.